He soon learns to nibble
the tufted rock-grasses and leaves of the white spirsea; his horns begin
to shoot, and before summer is done he is strong and agile, and goes
forth with the flock, watched by the same divine love that tends the
more helpless human lamb in its cradle by the fireside.
Nothing is more commonly remarked by noisy, dusty trail-travelers in
the Sierra than the want of animal life--no song-birds, no deer, no
squirrels, no game of any kind, they say. But if such could only go away
quietly into the wilderness, sauntering afoot and alone with natural
deliberation, they would soon learn that these mountain mansions are not
without inhabitants, many of whom, confiding and gentle, would not try
to shun their acquaintance.
[Illustration: HEAD OF THE MERINO RAM (DOMESTIC).]
In the fall of 1873 I was tracing the South Fork of the San Joaquin up
its wild canon to its farthest glacier fountains. It was the season of
alpine Indian summer. The sun beamed lovingly; the squirrels were
nutting in the pine-trees, butterflies hovered about the last of the
goldenrods, the willow and maple thickets were yellow, the meadows
brown, and the whole sunny, mellow landscape glowed like a countenance
in the deepest and sweetest repose.
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