At sunrise, or later, in his
bathing suit, or when away from too close neighbors, clothed, as
dear old Walt Whitman puts it, "in the natural and religious idea of
nakedness," the cold waters of the Lake invite him to a healthful and
invigorating plunge, with a stimulating and vivifying swim. A swift
rub down with a crash towel, a rapid donning of rude walking togs and
off, instanter, for a mile climb up one of the trails, a scramble over
a rocky way to some hidden Sierran lake, some sheltered tree nook,
some elevated outlook point, and, after feasting the eyes on the
glories of incomparable and soul-elevating scenes, he returns to camp,
eats a hearty breakfast, with a clear conscience, a vigorous appetite
aided by hunger sauce, guided by the normal instincts of taste, all of
which have been toned up by the morning's exercise--what wonder that
such an one radiates Life and Vim, Energy and Health, Joy and Content.
Do you know what the lure must be when a busy man, an active man,
an alert man, a man saturated with the nervous spirit of American
commercial life, sits down in one of the seats overlooking the Lake,
or spreads out his full length upon the grass, or on the beds of
Sierran moss, which make a deliciously restful cushion, and stays
there! He does nothing; doesn't even look consciously at the blue
waters of the Lake, on the ineffable blue of the sky, or the rich
green of the trees or the glory of the flowers--he simply sits or
sprawls or lies and, though the influence is different, the effect is
the same as that expressed in the old hymn:
My soul would ever stay,
In such a frame as this,
And sit and sing itself away,
To everlasting bliss.
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