Ned is a brave fellow. God bless him unspeakably and feed him with his own South American self. I shall be most happy to know your Doggetts or anything that you call dear. Good-night and love to all. I have not seen any of my “Tribune” letters, though I have written five or six. Send copy if you can. J. MUIR. [1872.] [Beginning of letter missing.] Farewell. I’m glad you are to get your Ned again. The fever will soon cool out from his veins in the breath of California. The valley is full of sun, but glorious Sierras are piled above the South Dome and Starr King. I mean the bossy cumuli that are daily upheaved at this season, making a cloud period yet grander than the rock-sculpturing, Yosemite-making, forest-planting glacial period. Yesterday we had our first midday shower. The pines waved gloriously at its approach, the woodpeckers beat about as if alarmed, but the hummingbird moths thought the cloud shadows belonged to evening and came down to eat among the mints. All the fire and rocks of Starr King were bathily dripped before. [1872.] [Beginning of letter missing.] they will go on Monoward for Tahoe. I mean to set some stakes in a dozen glaciers and gather some arithmetic for clothing my thoughts. I hope you will not allow old H. or his picture agent, Houseworth, to so gobble and bewool poor Agassiz that I will not see him. Remember me always to the Doctor and the boys and to Mrs. Moore, and I am ever yours, JOHN MUIR. I will return to the valley in about a week, if I don’t get over-deep in a crevass. _Later._ Yours of Monday evening has just come. I am glad your boy is so soon to feel mother home and its blessings. I hope to meet Torrey, although I will push iceward as before, but may get back in time. I will enjoy Agassiz, and Tyndall even more. I’m sorry for poor Stoddard. Tell him to come. I’ll see Mrs. H., perhaps, this evening and deliver your message. Farewell. New Sentinel Hotel, Yosemite Valley, May 31, 1872. Yours announcing the Joaquin and the Doggetts and _more_ is here. I care not when you come, so that you come calm and timeful. I will try to compel myself down to you in August, but these years and ages among snows and rocks have made me far more unfit for the usages of civilization than you appreciate. My nerves’ strings shrink at the prospect, even at this distance. But if by diving to that slimy town sea-bottom I can touch Huxley and Tyndall and mount again with you to calm months in the Sierras, I will draw a long breath and splash into your fearful muds. I would rather have you in September and October than at any other time, but a few weeks of this white water would be very glorious. Merrill Moores, who was with me in Wisconsin and at your Madison home, will be here soon to spend a good big block of a while with me. Why can’t you let Allie join him?