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whom he piloted about and above the Yosemite Valley-Emerson, Sir Joseph Hooker, Torrey, and many others of an older day or of late years, including presidents Roosevelt and Taft.

Muir was clever at story-telling, and put into it both wit and sympathy, never failing to give, as a background, more delightful information about the mountains than a professor of geology would put into a chapter. With his one good eye-for the sight of the other had been impaired in his college days in Wisconsin by the stroke of a needle-he saw every scene, in detail and in mass. This his conversation visualized until his imagination kindled the imagination of his hearer.

Adventures are to the adventurous. Muir, never reckless, was fortunate in seeing nature in many a wonderful mood and aspect. Who that has read them can forget his wonderful descriptions of the windstorm in the Yuba which he outrode in a treetop, or of the avalanche in the Yosemite, or of the spring floods pouring in hundreds of streams over the rim of the Valley? And what unrecorded adventures he must have had as pioneer of peak and glacier in his study of the animal and vegetable life of the Sierra. Did any observer ever come nearer than he to recording the soul of Nature? If "good-will makes intelligence," as Emerson avers, Muir's love of his mountains amounted to divination. What others learned laboriously, he seemed to reach by instinct, and yet he was painstaking in the extreme and jealous of the correctness of both his facts and his conclusions, defending them as a beast defends her young. In the Arctic, in the great forests of Asia, on the Amazon and in Africa at seventy-three, wherever he was, he incurred peril, not for "the game," but for some great emprise of science.

But Muir's public services were not merely scientific and literary. His countrymen owe him gratitude as the pioneer of our system of national parks. Before 1889 we had but one of any importance the Yellowstone. Out of the fight which he led for the better care of the Yosemite by the State of California grew the demand for the extension of the system. To this many persons and organizations contributed, but Muir's writings and enthusiasm were the chief forces that inspired the movement. All the other torches were lighted from his. His disinterestedness was too obvious not to be recognized even by opponents. To a

friend who in 1906 made an inquiry about a mine in California he wrote: "I don't know anything about the X— mine or any other. Nor do I know any mine owners. All this $ geology is out of my line." It was in his name that the appeal was made for the creation of the Yosemite National Park in 1890, and for six years he was the leader of the movement for the retrocession by California of the Valley reservation, to be merged in the surrounding park, a result which, by the timely aid of Edward H. Harriman, was accomplished in 1905.

In 1896-7, when the Forestry Commission of the National Academy of Sciences, under the chairmanship of Professor Charles S. Sargent, of Harvard, was making investigations to determine what further reservations ought to be made in the form of national parks, Muir accompanied it over much of its route through the far west and the northwest, and gave it his assistance and counsel. March 27, 1899, he wrote: "I've spent most of the winter on forest protection—at least I've done little beside writing about it." From its inception to its lamentable success in December, 1913, he fought every step of the scheme to grant to San Francisco for a water reservoir the famous Hetch Hetchy Valley, part of the Yosemite National Park, which, as I have said, had been created largely through his instrumentality. In the last stages of the campaign his time was almost exclusively occupied with this contest. He opposed the project as unnecessary, as objectionable intrinsically, and as a dangerous precedent, and he was greatly cast down when it became a law. But he was also relieved. Writing to a friend, he said: "I'm glad the fight for the Tuolumne Yosemite is finished. It has lasted twelve years. Some compensating good must surely come from so great a loss. With the New Year comes new work. I am now writing on Alaska. A fine change from faithless politics to crystal ice and snow." It is also to his credit that he first made known to the world the wonder and glory of the Big Trees; those that have been rescued from the saw of the sordid lumbermen owe their salvation primarily to his voice.

Muir's death, on Christmas Eve of 1914, though it occurred at the ripe age of seventy-six and though it closed a life of distinguished achievement, was yet untimely, for his work was by no means finished. For years I had been imploring him to

devote himself to the completion of his record. The material for many contemplated volumes exists in his numerous notebooks, and though, I believe, these notes were to a great degree written in extenso rather than scrappily, and thus contain much available literary treasure, yet where is the one that could give them the roundness of presentation and the charm of style which are found in Muir's best literary work? One almost hesitates to use the word "great" of one who has just passed away, but I believe that history will give a very high place to the indomitable explorer who discovered the great glacier named for him, and whose life for eleven years in the High Sierra resulted in a body of writing of marked excellence, combining accurate and carefully co-ordinated scientific observation with poetic sensibility and expression. His chief books, The Mountains of California, Our National Parks and The Yosemite, are both delightful and convincing, and should be made supplemental reading for schools. When he rhapsodizes it is because his subject calls for rhapsody, and not to cover up thinness of texture in his material. He is likely to remain the one historian of the Sierra; he imported into his view the imagination of the poet and the reverence of the worshiper.

Muir was not without wide and affectionate regard in his own state, but California was too near to him to appreciate fully his greatness as a prophet, or the service he did in trying to recall her to the gospel of beauty. She has, however, done him and herself honor in providing for a path in the High Sierra, from the Yosemite to Mount Whitney, to be called the John Muir trail. William Kent, during Muir's life, paid him a rare tribute in giving to the nation a park of redwoods with the understanding that it should be named Muir Woods. But the nation owes him more. His work was not sectional but for the whole people, for he was the real father of the forest reservations of America. The National Government should create from the great wild Sierra forest reserve a national park, to include the Kings River Cañon, to be called by his name. This recognition would be, so to speak, an overt act, the naming of the Muir Glacier being automatic by his very discovery of it. It is most appropriate

and fitting that a wild Sierra region should be named for him. There has been but one John Muir.

The best monument to him, however, would be a successful movement, even at this late day, to save the Hetch Hetchy Valley from appropriation for commercial purposes. His death was hastened by his grief at this unbelievable calamity and I should be recreant to his memory if I did not call special attention to his crowning public service in endeavoring to prevent the disaster. The Government owes him penance at his tomb. In conclusion, John Muir was not a "dreamer", but a practical man, a faithful citizen, a scientific observer, a writer of enduring power, with vision, poetry, courage in a contest, a heart of gold, and a spirit pure and fine.

THE BURIAL OF JOHN MUIR

BY CHARLOTTE HOFFMAN KELLOGG

With thee, man-heart, where dawns on glaciers play
We went; by thy child-heart with joy were fed;
And by thy poet-heart to prayer were led.

Still following, we cross thy fields today,

Beside the stream, beneath the yew and bay;

Lower thy body to its chosen bed.

Quail call-tree-shadows creep toward thy dear head As in green boughs we wrap thee for alway.

Now holy memories still our questioning—

Thou know'st not their despair whose reason would
Leap with the spirit the blind brink of Time;
Here thus to seal eternal brotherhood

With sun and lily, where the foam-bells ring,
For thee is immortality sublime.

RECOLLECTIONS OF JOHN MUIR

BY CHARLES KEELER

My earliest recollections of John Muir date back some twenty-odd years, to those golden days in William Keith's rather dingy but glorious studio on Montgomery Street, when Muir would drop in from his Martinez retreat for a chat with his old painter friend. The two Scotchmen, who had camped together in Sierra wilds in summer outings, and cracked jokes at one another's expense in the studio or at one of the little French restaurants where they lunched during winter visits, were big elemental natures, both of them. The child-heart each had treasured in his own peculiar way. They were Willie and Johnnie in their bantering sallies.

Both were deeply religious natures, but emancipated from formalism and tradition. Both were students and lovers of nature, but where Keith saw color and atmosphere, poetry and romance, in mountain and vale, tree and sky, Muir's eyes were fixed on the ever-changing processes of immutable law.

Those who knew Keith's work best realized that it fell into two groups-a comparatively hard, literal portrayal of the facts of landscape, and a free, impassioned outburst of impressionistic depicting of nature's moods. In his own heart he scorned the former and frankly gloried in the latter. His naturalistic sketches in color were either studies of underlying fact or potboilers for the uninitiated who were not up to his dream rhapsodies.

Muir was at heart a seer. But for him the wonder and glory of nature lay not in its romance of atmosphere and its appeal to human emotions. He saw in it rather the embodiment of divine law, and in a picture looked for a naturalistic portrayal rather than an impressionistic interpretation. So it was that he failed to appreciate his artist friend's finest work. With his dry Scotch humor he loved to twit him in good-natured raillery. Both in the old Montgomery Street studio, and later in the larger Pine Street rooms, I have spent many a happy hour with

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