Toward the end
of summer the streams are at their lowest ebb, few even of the strongest
singing much above a whisper they slip and ripple through gravel and
boulder-beds from pool to pool in the hollows of their channels, and
drop in pattering showers like rain, and slip down precipices and fall
in sheets of embroidery, fold over fold. But, however low their singing,
it is always ineffably fine in tone, in harmony with the restful time of
the year.
The first snow of the season that comes to the help of the streams
usually falls in September or October, sometimes even is the latter part
of August, in the midst of yellow Indian summer when the goldenrods and
gentians of the glacier meadows are is their prime. This Indian-summer
snow, however, soon melts, the chilled flowers spread their petals to
the sun, and the gardens as well as the streams are refreshed as if only
a warm shower had fallen. The snow-storms that load the mountains to
form the main fountain supply for the year seldom set in before the
middle or end of November.
Winter Beauty Of The Valley
When the first heavy storms stopped work on the high mountains, I made
haste down to my Yosemite den, not to "hole up" and sleep the white
months away; I was out every day, and often all night, sleeping but
little, studying the so-called wonders and common things ever on show,
wading, climbing, sauntering among the blessed storms and calms,
rejoicing in almost everything alike that I could see or hear: the
glorious brightness of frosty mornings; the sunbeams pouring over the
white domes and crags into the groves end waterfalls, kindling marvelous
iris fires in the hoarfrost and spray; the great forests and mountains
in their deep noon sleep; the good-night alpenglow; the stars; the
solemn gazing moon, drawing the huge domes and headlands one by one
glowing white out of the shadows hushed and breathless like an audience
in awful enthusiasm, while the meadows at their feet sparkle with
frost-stars like the sky; the sublime darkness of storm-nights, when all
the lights are out; the clouds in whose depths the frail snow-flowers
grow; the behavior and many voices of the different kinds of storms,
trees, birds, waterfalls, and snow-avalanches in the ever-changing
weather.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52