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THE waterfalls of the Sierra
are frequented by only one bird, — the ouzel or water thrush (Cinclus
Mexicanus, Sw.) . He is a singularly joyous and lovable little fellow, about
the size of a robin, clad in a plain waterproof suit of bluish gray, with a
tinge of chocolate on the head and shoulders. In form he is about as
smoothly plump and compact as a pebble that has been whirled in a pot-hole,
the flowing contour of his body being interrupted only by his strong feet
and bill, the crisp wing-tips, and the up-slanted wren-like tail.
Among all the countless
waterfalls I have met in the course of ten years' exploration in the Sierra,
whether among the icy peaks, or warm foothills, or in the profound yosemitic
canons of the middle region, not one was found without its ouzel. No canon
is too cold for this little bird, none too lonely, provided it be rich in
falling water. Find a fall, or cascade, or rushing rapid, anywhere upon a
clear stream, and there you will surely find its complementary ouzel,
flitting about in the spray, diving in foaming eddies, whirling like a leaf
among beaten foam bells; ever vigorous and enthusiastic, yet self-contained,
and neither seeking nor shunning your company.
If disturbed while dipping
about in the margin shallows, he either sets off with a rapid whir to some
other feeding-ground up or down the stream, or alights on some
half-submerged rock or snag out in the current, and immediately begins to
nod and courtesy like a wren, turning his head from side to side with many
other odd dainty movements that never fail to fix the attention of the
observer.
He is the mountain streams'
own darling, the hummingbird of blooming waters, loving rocky ripple slopes
and sheets of foam as a bee loves flowers, as a lark loves sunshine and
meadows. Among all the mountain birds, none has cheered me so much in my
lonely wanderings, — none so unfailingly. For both in winter and summer he
sings, sweetly, cheerily, independent alike of sunshine and of love,
requiring no other inspiration than the stream on which he dwells. While
water sings, so must he, in heat or cold, calm or storm, ever attuning his
voice in sure accord; low in the drought of summer and the drought of
winter, but never silent.
During the golden days of
Indian summer, after most of the snow has been melted, and the mountain
streams have become feeble, - a succession of silent pools, linked together
by shallow, transparent currents and strips of silvery lacework, — then the
song of the ouzel is at its lowest ebb. But as soon as the winter clouds
have bloomed, and the mountain treasuries are once more replenished with
snow, the voices of the streams and ouzels increase in strength and richness
until the flood season of early summer. Then the torrents chant their
noblest anthems, and then is the flood-time of our songster's melody. As for
weather, dark days and sun days are the same to him. The voices of most song
birds, however joyous, suffer a long winter eclipse; but the ouzel sings on
through all the seasons and every kind of storm. Indeed, no storm can be
more violent than those of the waterfalls in the midst of which he delights
to dwell. However dark and boisterous the weather, snowing, blowing, or
cloudy, all the same he sings, and with never a note of sadness. No need of
spring sunshine to thaw his song, for it never freezes. Never shall you hear
anything wintery from his warm breast; no pinched cheeping, no wavering
notes between sorrow and joy; his mellow, fluty voice is ever tuned to
downright gladness, as free from dejection as cock-crowing.
It is pitiful to see wee
frost-pinched sparrows on cold mornings in the mountain groves shaking the
snow from their feathers, and hopping about as if anxious to be cheery, then
hastening back to their hidings out of the wind, puffing out their breast
feathers over their toes, and subsiding among the leaves, cold and
breakfast-less, while the snow continues to fall, and there is no sign of
clearing. But the ouzel never calls forth a single touch of pity; not
because he is strong to endure, but rather because he seems to live a
charmed life beyond the reach of every influence that makes endurance
necessary.
One wild winter morning, when
Yosemite Valley was swept its length from west to east by a cordial
snowstorm, I sallied forth to see what I might learn and enjoy. A sort of
gray, gloaming-like darkness filled the valley, the huge walls were out of
sight, all ordinary sounds were smothered, and even the loudest booming of
the falls was at times buried beneath the roar of the heavy-laden blast. The
loose snow was already over five feet deep on the meadows, making extended
walks impossible without the aid of snowshoes. I found no great difficulty,
however, in making my way to a certain ripple on the river where one of my
ouzels lived. He was at home, busily gleaning his breakfast among the
pebbles of a shallow portion of the margin, apparently unaware of anything
extraordinary in the weather. Presently he flew out to a stone against which
the icy current was beating, and turning his back to the wind, sang as
delightfully as a lark in springtime.
After spending an hour or two
with my favorite, I made my way across the valley, boring and wallowing
through the drifts, to learn as definitely as possible how the other birds
were spending their time. The Yosemite birds are easily found during the
winter because all of them excepting the ouzel are restricted to the sunny
north side of the valley, the south side being constantly eclipsed by the
great frosty shadow of the wall. And because the Indian Canon groves, from
their peculiar exposure, are the warmest, the birds congregate there, more
especially in severe weather.
I found most of the robins
cowering on the lee side of the larger branches where the snow could not
fall upon them, while two or three of the more enterprising were making
desperate efforts to reach the mistletoe berries by clinging nervously to
the under side of the snow-crowned masses, back downward, like woodpeckers.
Every now and then they would dislodge some of the loose fringes of the
snow-crown, which would come sifting down on them and send them screaming
back to camp, where they would subside among their companions with a shiver,
muttering in low, querulous chatter like hungry children.
Some of the sparrows were
busy at the feet of the larger trees gleaning seeds and benumbed insects,
joined now and then by a robin weary of his unsuccessful attempts upon the
snow-covered berries. The brave woodpeckers were clinging to the snowless
sides of the larger boles and overarching branches of the camp trees, making
short flights from side to side of the grove, pecking now and then at the
acorns they had stored in the bark, and chattering aimlessly as if unable to
keep still, yet evidently putting in the time in a very dull way, like
storm-bound travelers at a country tavern. The hardy nuthatches were
threading the open furrows of the trunks in their usual industrious manner,
and uttering their quaint notes, evidently less distressed than their
neighbors. The Steller jays were, of course, making more noisy stir than all
the other birds combined; ever coming and going with loud bluster, screaming
as if each had a lump of melting sludge in his throat, and taking good care
to improve the favorable opportunity afforded by the storm to steal from the
acorn stores of the woodpeckers. I also noticed one solitary gray eagle
braving the storm on the top of a tall pine stump just outside the main
grove. He was standing bolt upright with his back to the wind, a tuft of
snow piled on his square shoulders, a monument of passive endurance. Thus
every snow-bound bird seemed more or less uncomfortable if not in positive
distress. The storm was reflected in every gesture, and not one cheerful
note, not to say song, came from a single bill; their cowering, joyless
endurance offering a striking contrast to the spontaneous, irrepressible
gladness of the ouzel, who could no more help exhaling sweet song than a
rose sweet fragrance. He must sing, though the heavens fall. I remember
noticing the distress of a pair of robins during the violent earthquake of
the year 1872, when the pines of the Valley, with strange movements, flapped
and waved their branches, and beetling rock brows came thundering down to
the meadows in tremendous avalanches. It did not occur to me in the midst of
the excitement of other observations to look for the ouzels, but I doubt not
they were singing straight on through it all, regarding the terrible rock
thunder as fearlessly as they do the booming of the waterfalls.
What may be regarded as the
separate songs of the ouzel are exceedingly difficult of description,
because they are so variable and at the same time so confluent. Though I
have been acquainted with my favorite ten years, and during most of this
time have heard him sing nearly every day, I still detect notes and strains
that seem new to me. Nearly all of his music is sweet and tender, lapsing
from his round breast like water over the smooth lip of a pool, then
breaking farther on into a sparkling foam of melodious notes, which glow
with subdued enthusiasm, yet without expressing much of the strong, gushing
ecstasy of the bobolink or skylark.
The more striking strains are
perfect arabesques of melody, composed of a few full, round, mellow notes,
embroidered with delicate trills which fade and melt in long slender
cadences. In a general way his music is that of the streams refined and
spiritualized. The deep booming notes of the falls are in it, the trills of
rapids, the gurgling of margin eddies, the low whispering of level reaches,
and the sweet tinkle of separate drops oozing from the ends of mosses and
falling into tranquil pools.
The ouzel never sings in
chorus with other birds, nor with his kind, but only with the streams. And
like flowers that bloom beneath the surface of the ground, some of our
favorite's best song-blossoms never rise above the surface of the heavier
music of the water. I have often observed him singing in the midst of beaten
spray, his music completely buried beneath the water's roar; yet I knew he
was surely singing by his gestures and the movements of his bill.
His food, as far as I have
noticed, consists of all kinds of water insects, which in summer are chiefly
procured along shallow margins. Here he wades about ducking his head under
water and deftly turning over pebbles and fallen leaves with his bill,
seldom choosing to go into deep water where he has to use his wings in
diving.
He seems to be especially
fond of the larvae of mosquitoes, found in abundance attached to the bottom
of smooth rock channels where the current is shallow. When feeding in such
places he wades upstream, and often while his head is under water the swift
current is deflected upward along the glossy curves of his neck and
shoulders, in the form of a clear, crystalline shell, which fairly incloses
him like a bell-glass, the shell being broken and re-formed as he lifts and
dips his head; while ever and anon he sidles out to where the too powerful
current carries him off his feet; then he dexterously rises on the wing and
goes gleaning again in shallower places.
But during the winter, when
the stream banks are embossed in snow, and the streams themselves are
chilled nearly to the freezing-point, so that the snow falling into them in
stormy weather is not wholly dissolved, but forms a thin, blue sludge, thus
rendering the current opaque — then he seeks the deeper portions of the main
rivers, where he may dive to clear water beneath the sludge. Or he repairs
to some open lake or millpond, at the bottom of which he feeds in safety.
When thus compelled to betake
himself to a lake, he does not plunge into it at once like a duck, but
always alights in the first place upon some rock or fallen pine along the
shore. Then flying out thirty or forty yards, more or less, according to the
character of the bottom, he alights with a dainty glint on the surface,
swims about, looks down, finally makes up his mind, and disappears with a
sharp stroke of his wings. After feeding for two or three minutes, he
suddenly reappears, showers the water from his wings with one vigorous
shake, and rises abruptly into the air as if pushed up from beneath, comes
back to his perch, sings a few minutes, and goes out to dive again; thus
coming and going, singing and diving at the same place for hours.
The ouzel is usually found
singly; rarely in pairs, excepting during the breeding-season, and very
rarely in threes or fours. I once observed three thus spending a winter
morning in company, upon a small glacier lake, on the Upper Merced, about
seventy-five hundred feet above the level of the sea. A storm had occurred
during the night, but the morning sun shone unclouded, and the shadowy lake,
gleaming darkly in its setting of fresh snow, lay smooth and motionless as a
mirror. My camp chanced to be within a few feet of the water's edge,
opposite a fallen pine, some of the branches of which leaned out over the
lake. Here my three dearly welcome visitors took up their station, and at
once began to embroider the frosty air with their delicious melody, doubly
delightful to me that particular morning, as I had been somewhat
apprehensive of danger in breaking my way down through the snow-choked
canons to the lowlands.
The portion of the lake
bottom selected for a feeding-ground lies at a depth of fifteen or twenty
feet below the surface, and is covered with a short growth of algae and
other aquatic plants, — facts I had previously determined while sailing over
it on a raft. After alighting on the glassy surface, they occasionally
indulged in a little play, chasing one another round about in small circles;
then all three would suddenly dive together, and then come ashore and sing.
The ouzel seldom swims more
than a few yards on the surface, for, not being web-footed, he makes rather
slow progress, but by means of his strong, crisp wings, he swims, or rather
flies, with celerity under the surface, often to considerable distances. But
it is in withstanding the force of heavy rapids that his strength of wing in
this respect is most strikingly manifested. The following may be regarded as
a fair illustration of his power of sub-aquatic flight. One stormy morning
in winter when the Merced River was blue and green with unmelted snow, I
observed one of my ouzels perched on a snag out in the midst of a
swift-rushing rapid, singing cheerily, as if everything was just to his
mind; and while I stood on the bank admiring him, he suddenly plunged into
the sludgy current, leaving his song abruptly broken off. After feeding a
minute or two at the bottom, and when one would suppose that he must
inevitably be swept far downstream, he emerged just where he went down,
alighted on the same snag, showered the water beads from his feathers, and
continued his unfinished song, seemingly in tranquil ease as if it had
suffered no interruption.
The ouzel alone of all birds
dares to enter a white torrent. And though strictly terrestrial in
structure, no other is so inseparably related to water, not even the duck,
or the bold ocean albatross, or the stormy petrel. For ducks go ashore as
soon as they finish feeding in undisturbed places, and very often make long
flights overland from lake to lake or field to field. The same is true of
most other aquatic birds. But the ouzel, born on the brink of a stream, or
on a snag or boulder in the midst of it, seldom leaves it for a single
moment. For, notwithstanding he is often on the wing, he never flies
overland, but whirs with rapid, quail-like beat above the stream, tracing
all its windings. Even when the stream is quite small, say from five to ten
feet wide, he seldom shortens his flight by crossing a bend, however abrupt
it may be; and even when disturbed by meeting some one on the bank, he
prefers to fly over one's head, to dodging out over the ground. When,
therefore, his flight along a crooked stream is viewed endwise, it appears
most strikingly wavered — a description on the air of every curve with
lightning-like rapidity.
The vertical curves and
angles of the most precipitous torrents he traces with the same rigid
fidelity, swooping down the inclines of cascades, dropping sheer over dizzy
falls amid the spray, and ascending with the same fearlessness and ease,
seldom seeking to lessen the steepness of the acclivity by beginning to
ascend before reaching the base of the fall. No matter though it may be
several hundred feet in height he holds straight on, as if about to dash
headlong into the throng of booming rockets, then darts abruptly upward,
and, after alighting at the top of the precipice to rest a moment, proceeds
to feed and sing. His flight is solid and impetuous, without any
intermission of wing-beats, — one homogeneous buzz like that of a laden bee
on its way home. And while thus buzzing freely from fall to fall, he is
frequently heard giving utterance to a long outdrawn train of unmodulated
notes, in no way connected with his song, but corresponding closely with his
flight in sustained vigor.
Were the flights of all the
ouzels in the Sierra traced on a chart, they would indicate the direction of
the flow of the entire system of ancient glaciers, from about the period of
the breaking up of the ice sheet until near the close of the glacial winter;
because the streams which the ouzels so rigidly follow are, with the
unimportant exceptions of a few side tributaries, all flowing in channels
eroded for them out of the solid flank of the range by the vanished
glaciers, -- the streams tracing the ancient glaciers, the ouzels tracing
the streams. Nor do we find so complete compliance to glacial conditions in
the life of any other mountain bird, or animal of any kind. Bears frequently
accept the pathways laid down by glaciers as the easiest to travel; but they
often leave them and cross over from canon to canon. So also, most of the
birds trace the moraines to some extent, because the forests are growing on
them. But they wander far, crossing the canons from grove to grove, and draw
exceedingly angular and complicated courses.
The ouzel's nest is one of
the most extraordinary pieces of bird architecture I ever saw, odd and novel
in design, perfectly fresh and beautiful, and in every way worthy of the
genius of the little builder. It is about a foot in diameter, round and
bossy in outline, with a neatly arched opening near the bottom, somewhat
like an old-fashioned brick oven, or Hottentot's hut. It is built almost
exclusively of green and yellow mosses, chiefly the beautiful fronded hypnum
that covers the rocks and old drift-logs in the vicinity of waterfalls.
These are deftly interwoven, and felted together into a charming little hut;
and so situated that many of the outer mosses continue to flourish as if
they had not been plucked. A few fine, silky-stemmed grasses are
occasionally found interwoven with the mosses, but, with the exception of a
thin layer lining the floor, their presence seems accidental, as they are of
a species found growing with the mosses and are probably plucked with them.
The site chosen for this curious mansion is usually some little rock shelf
within reach of the lighter particles of the spray of a waterfall, so that
its walls are kept green and growing, at least during the time of high
water.
No harsh lines are presented
by any portion of the nest as seen in place, but when removed from its
shelf, the back and bottom, and sometimes a portion of the top, is found
quite sharply angular, because it is made to conform to the surface of the
rock upon which and against which it is built, the little architect always
taking advantage of slight crevices and protuberances that may chance to
offer, to render his structure stable by means of a kind of gripping and
dovetailing.
In choosing a building-spot,
concealment does not seem to be taken into consideration; yet
notwithstanding the nest is large and guilelessly exposed to view, it is far
from being easily detected, chiefly because it swells forward like any other
bulging moss cushion growing naturally in such situations. This is more
especially the case where the nest is kept fresh by being well sprinkled.
Sometimes these romantic little huts have their beauty enhanced by rock
ferns and grasses that spring up around the mossy walls, or in front of the
doorsill, dripping with crystal beads.
Furthermore, at certain hours
of the day, when the sunshine is poured down at the required angle, the
whole mass of the spray enveloping the fairy establishment is brilliantly
irised; and it is through so glorious a rainbow atmosphere as this that some
of our blessed ouzels obtain their first peep at the world.
Ouzels seem so completely
part and parcel of the streams they inhabit, they scarce suggest any other
origin than the streams themselves; and one might almost be pardoned in
fancying they come direct from the living waters, like flowers from the
ground. At least, from whatever cause, it never occurred to me to look for
their nests until more than a year after I had made the acquaintance of the
birds themselves, although I found one the very day on which I began the
search. In making my way from Yosemite to the glaciers at the heads of the
Merced and Tuolumne Rivers, I camped in a particularly wild and romantic
portion of the Nevada canon where in previous excursions I had never failed
to enjoy the company of my favorites, who were attracted here, no doubt, by
the safe nesting-places in the shelving rocks, and by the abundance of food
and falling water. The river, for miles above and below, consists of a
succession of small falls from ten to sixty feet in height, connected by
flat, plume-like cascades that go flashing from fall to fall, free and
almost channelless, over waving folds of glacier-polished granite.
On the south side of one of
the falls, that portion of the precipice bathed by the spray presents a
series of little shelves and tablets caused by the development of planes of
cleavage in the granite, and by the consequent fall of masses through the
action of the water. "Now, here," said I, "of all places, is the most
charming spot for an ouzel's nest." Then carefully scanning the fretted face
of the precipice through the spray, I at length noticed a yellowish moss
cushion, growing on the edge of a level tablet within five or six feet of
the outer folds of the fall. But apart from the fact of its being situated
where one acquainted with the lives of ouzels would fancy an ouzel's nest
ought to be, there was nothing in its appearance visible at first sight, to
distinguish it from other bosses of rock-moss similarly situated with
reference to perennial spray; and it was not until I had scrutinized it
again and again, and had removed my shoes and stockings and crept along the
face of the rock within eight or ten feet of it, that I could decide
certainly whether it was a nest or a natural growth.
In these moss huts three or
four eggs are laid, white like foam bubbles; and well may the little birds
hatched from them sing water songs, for they hear them all their lives, and
even before they are born.
I have often observed the
young just out of the nest making their odd gestures, and seeming in every
way as much at home as their experienced parents, like young bees on their
first excursions to the flower fields. No amount of familiarity with people
and their ways seems to change them in the least. To all appearance their
behavior is just the same on seeing a man for the first time, as when they
have seen him frequently.
On the lower reaches of the
rivers where mills are built, they sing on through the din of the machinery,
and all the noisy confusion of dogs, cattle, and workmen. On one occasion,
while a wood-chopper was at work on the river-bank, I observed one cheerily
singing within reach of the flying chips. Nor does any kind of unwonted
disturbance put him in bad humor, or frighten him out of calm
self-possession. In passing through a narrow gorge, I once drove one ahead
of me from rapid to rapid, disturbing him four times in quick succession
where he could not very well fly past me on account of the narrowness of the
channel. Most birds under similar circumstances fancy themselves pursued,
and become suspiciously uneasy; but, instead of growing nervous about it, he
made his usual dippings, and sang one of his most tranquil strains. When
observed within a few yards their eyes are seen to express remarkable
gentleness and intelligence; but they seldom allow so near a view unless one
wears clothing of about the same color as the rocks and trees, and knows how
to sit still. On one occasion, while rambling along the shore of a mountain
lake, where the birds, at least those born that season, had never seen a
man, I sat down to rest on a large stone close to the water's edge, upon
which it seemed the ouzels and sandpipers were in the habit of alighting
when they came to feed on that part of the shore, and some of the other
birds also, when they came down to wash or drink. In a few minutes, along
came a whirring ouzel and alighted on the stone beside me, within reach of
my hand. Then suddenly observing me, he stooped nervously as if about to fly
on the instant, but as I remained as motionless as the stone, he gained
confidence, and looked me steadily in the face for about a minute, then flew
quietly to the outlet and began to sing. Next came a sandpiper and gazed at
me with much the same guileless expression of eye as the ouzel. Lastly, down
with a swoop came a Steller's jay out of a fir tree, probably with the
intention of moistening his noisy throat. But instead of sitting confidingly
as my other visitors had done, he rushed off at once, nearly tumbling heels
over head into the lake in his suspicious confusion, and with loud screams
roused the neighborhood.
Love for song birds, with
their sweet human voices, appears to be more common and unfailing than love
for flowers. Every one loves flowers to some extent, at least in life's
fresh morning, attracted by them as instinctively as hummingbirds and bees.
Even the young Digger Indians have sufficient love for the brightest of
those found growing on the mountains to gather them and braid them as
decorations for the hair. And I was glad to discover, through the few
Indians that could be induced to talk on the subject, that they have names
for the wild rose and the lily, and other conspicuous flowers, whether
available as food or otherwise. Most men, however, whether savage or
civilized, become apathetic toward all plants that have no other apparent
use than the use of beauty. But fortunately one's first instinctive love of
song-birds is never wholly obliterated, no matter what the influences upon
our lives may be. I have often been delighted to see a pure, spiritual glow
come into the countenances of hard business men and old miners, when a
songbird chanced to alight near them. Nevertheless, the little mouthful of
meat that swells out the breasts of some song-birds is too often the cause
of their death. Larks and robins in particular are brought to market in
hundreds. But fortunately the ouzel has no enemy so eager to eat his little
body as to follow him into the mountain solitudes. I never knew him to be
chased even by hawks.
An acquaintance of mine, a
sort of foothill mountaineer, had a pet cat, a great, dozy, overgrown
creature, about as broad-shouldered as a lynx. During the winter, while the
snow lay deep, the mountaineer sat in his lonely cabin among the pines
smoking his pipe and wearing the dull time away. Tom was his sole companion,
sharing his bed, and sitting beside him on a stool with much the same drowsy
expression of eye as his master. The good-natured bachelor was content with
his hard fare of soda bread and bacon, but Tom, the only creature in the
world acknowledging dependence on him, must needs be provided with fresh
meat. Accordingly he bestirred himself to contrive squirrel traps, and waded
the snowy woods with his gun, making sad havoc among the few winter birds,
sparing neither robin, sparrow, nor tiny nuthatch, and the pleasure of
seeing Tom eat and grow fat was his great reward.
One cold afternoon, while
hunting along the river-bank, he noticed a. plain-feathered little bird
skipping about in the shallows, and immediately raised his gun. But just
then the confiding songster began to sing, and after listening to his
summery melody the charmed hunter turned away, saying, "Bless your little
heart, I can't shoot you, not even for Tom."
Even so far north as icy
Alaska, I have found my glad singer. When I was exploring the glaciers
between Mount Fairweather and the Stickeen River, one cold day in November,
after trying in vain to force a way through the innumerable icebergs of Sum
Dum Bay to the great glaciers at the head of it, I was weary and baffled and
sat resting in my canoe convinced at last that I would have to leave this
part of my work for another year. Then I began to plan my escape to open
water before the young ice which was beginning to form should shut me in.
While I thus lingered drifting with the bergs, in the midst of these gloomy
forebodings and all the terrible glacial desolation and grandeur, I suddenly
heard the well-known whir of an ouzel's wings, and, looking up, saw my
little comforter coming straight across the ice from the shore. In a second
or two he was with me, flying three times round my head with a happy salute,
as if saying, "Cheer up, old friend; you see I'm here, and all's well." Then
he flew back to the shore, alighted on the topmost jag of a stranded
iceberg, and began to nod and bow as though he were on one of his favorite
boulders in the midst of a sunny Sierra cascade.
The species is distributed
all along the mountain-ranges of the Pacific Coast from Alaska to Mexico,
and east to the Rocky Mountains. Nevertheless, it is as yet comparatively
little known. Audubon and Wilson did not meet it. Swainson was, I believe,
the first naturalist to describe a specimen from Mexico. Specimens were
shortly afterward procured by Drummond near the sources of the Athabasca
River, between the fifty-fourth and fifty-sixth parallels; and it has been
collected by nearly all of the numerous exploring expeditions undertaken of
late through our Western States and Territories; for it never fails to
engage the attention of naturalists in a very particular manner.
Such, then, is our little
cinclus, beloved of every one who is so fortunate as to know him. Tracing on
strong wing every curve of the most precipitous torrents from one extremity
of the Sierra to the other; not fearing to follow them through their darkest
gorges and coldest snow-tunnels; acquainted with every waterfall, echoing
their divine music; and throughout the whole of their beautiful lives
interpreting all that we in our unbelief call terrible in the utterances of
torrents and storms, as only varied expressions of God's eternal love. |
