are a score or more of fishermen out in their little
boats, and strange to say, all of them near enough to be seen, are
fishing in a patch of deep blue. The water there must be deeper than
elsewhere, for there is where they invariably get their best catches.

In marked contrast to the blue is a great finger of emerald thrust out
from a nearby point, as if in warning not to dare pass its mysterious
border.

Now we come to the wild and rugged scenery. We are hemmed in on the
right by towering crags and walls of massive gray rock. Shattered and
seamed, scarred and disintegrated, they look as though earthquake and
lightning shock and the storms of a thousand years had battled with
them. They give a new touch of grandeur and almost awesome sublimity
to the scene.

For a mile or two we play at hide and seek with the Lake. It seems
as though we were in the hands of a wizard. "Now you see it, now you
don't." Query: "Where is the Lake?" Mountains, snowbanks, granite
walls, trees galore, creeks flashing their white crests dashing down
their stony courses toward the Lake, but only now and then do we catch
fleeting glimpses of it. All at once it bursts full and clear again
upon our enraptured vision, but only to give us a full taste of its
supernal beauty before we are whirled around a curve where the eye
rests upon nothing but the rugged majesty of the Sierras. Change and
contrast, the picturesque, beautiful, delicate and exquisite in close
touch and harmonious relationship with the majestic and the sublime.
Travel the whole world over and nothing surpassing this can be found.

Now we curve around high up above Emerald Bay, that small glacial
Lake, the eastern terminal moraine of which was unfortunately torn
through, so that the _lake_ disappeared and became a _bay_
of the great Lake itself. Every moment of this portion of the ride is
a delight. The senses are kept keenly alert, for not only have we the
Lake, the bay and the mountains, but part of the way we have flowers
and shrubs by the thousands, bees and butterflies flit to and fro, and
singing streams come foaming white from the snowbanks above, eager to
reach the Lake. As our car-wheels dash across these streamlets they
splash up the water on each side into sparkling diamonds and on every
hand come up the sweet scents of growing, living things. Now Mt.
Tallac, in all his serene majesty, looms ahead. Snow a hundred or
more feet deep in places covers his rocky sides. Here