John Muir


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A little fragment of wind is broken off from the main ocean, specialized and made to eddy and gurgle in the bosom of a lark, and that is made into music all precious sweet. Wind also gurgles and vibrates about the angles and hollows of every surface grain of sand – each sand grain making a perfect song, but not for us. How spiritual must be the tunes that are born in the groves of these golden daisies. How the wind will pulse among the curves and points of these lovely corollas and among the pistils and the stamens with their sculptured pollen, but not one note is for mortals. But thank God for this arrangement of the wind beneath the feathers of a lark, and for every wind vibration that our ears can read. [Jan.] 21. W. S.E. light. Clouds.002 transparent veils. H[oar] frost. The larks this morning sang to the words “Weero speero weeo weerlo weeit.” I wish I could understand lark language. Dreamed in the sunbeams when the sheep were calm, the plan of a hermitage, walls of pure white quartz, doors and windows edged with quartz crystals, windows of thin smooth sheets of water with ruffling apparatus to answer for curtains. The door a slate flake with brown and purple and yellow lichens. And oh, could not I find furniture. My table a grooved and shining slab of granite from the bed of the old mountain glaciers, stool a mossy stump or tree bracket of the big dry stout kind, and a bed of the spicy boughs of the spruce, etc. ad infinitum.

Date Original



Original journal dimensions: 14 x 18 cm.

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Holt-Atherton Special Collections, University of the Pacific Library

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John Muir, journals, drawings, writings, travel, journaling, naturalist