Little brown surf-bather of the mountains! Spirit of foam, lover of cataracts, shaking your wings in falling waters! Have you no fear of the roar and rush when Nevada plunges — Nevada, the shapely dancer, feeling her way with slim white fingers? How dare you dash at Yosemite the mighty — Tall, white limbed Yosemite, leaping down, down over the cliff? Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains? Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timberline, in bushes that hug the rocks? Must you fly through mad waters where the heaped-up granite breaks them? Must you batter your wings in the torrent? Must you plunge for life and death through the foam?