us, we knew he was as
disappointed as we all were that he could not be with us on that "exact
date."

How he did enjoy hectoring us for our absurd mistake in not reading our
long tickets through, consequently getting on the Santa Fe train to go
up to San Francisco when a little coupon stated that the ticket took us
by the Coast line. We were bound to let the Scot know of our mistake,
and our necessary transfer to the other road (as we had arranged to
meet him at a certain point on the Santa Fe), else, I suppose, we never
should have given him that chance to jeer at us. He made us tell him all
about it when we met, and shaking with laughter at all the complications
the mistake entailed, he declared, "Oh, but that's a bully story!"

"It'll put an inch of fat on Muir's ribs," retorted "Oom John," who was
not without chagrin at the fiasco.

"Johnnie, when you sail for Honolulu, I expect, unless you're narrowly
watched, you'll get on the wrong ship and go off to Vancouver," teased
the fun-loving Scot.

In Yosemite, Mr. Muir told us about the great trees he used to saw into
timber during his early years in the valley, showing us the site of his
old mill, and bragging that he built it and kept it in repair at a cost
of less than twenty-five cents a year. It seemed strange that he, a
tree-lover, could have cut down those noble spruces and firs, and I
whispered this to Mr. Burroughs.

"Ask him about it," said the latter, "ask him." So I did.

"Bless you, I never cut down the trees--I only sawed those the Lord had
felled."

The storms that swept down the mountains had laid these monarchs low,
and the thrifty Scot had merely taken advantage of the ill winds, at the
same time helping nature to get rid of the debris.

"How does this compare with Esopus Valley, Johnnie?" Mr. Muir was fond
of asking Mr. Burroughs, when he saw the latter gazing in admiration at
mighty El Capitan, or the thundering Yosemite Falls. Or he would say,
"How is that for a piece of glacial work, Johnnie?" as he pointed to
Half Dome and told how the glacier had worn off at least half a mile
from its top, and then had sawed right down through the valley.

"O Lord! that's too much, Muir," answered Mr. Burroughs. He declared
that it stuck in his crop--this theory that ice alone accounts for this
great valley cut out of the solid rocks. When the Scot would get to
riding his ice-hobby too hard, Mr. Burroughs would query, "But, Muir,
the million years b