Wisconsin in Story and Song:  JOHN MUIR

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Wisconsin in Story and Song
Selections from the Prose and Poetry of Badger State Writers.

Edited by Charles Ralph Rounds, Head of the Department of English of
the Milwaukee State Normal School and Henry Sherman Hippensteel, Head
of the Department of English and Director of High School Teacher
Training of the Stevens Point Normal School

Publishers:  The Parker Educational Company, Madison, Wisconsin

Copyright, 1916 by the Parker Educational Co., Madison, Wisconsin

Page(s): 64-71

JOHN MUIR.

John Muir was born at Dunbar, Scotland, April 21, 1838, and died at
Los Angeles, California, December 24, 1914. He attended school before
he had completed his third year of age, but even before this time his
grandfather had taught him the letters of the alphabet upon the signs
in the vicinity. . He remained in the Scotch schools until he was
eleven and made most valuable use of his time, as may be judged by his
progress, especially in Latin. At the age of eleven he had to leave
school to accompany his father to the new home in the forests of
Wisconsin.

Upon their arrival in America after a voyage which was to John and his
brother one constant round of happy experiences, there was no further
opportunity for elementary schooling. His education became that of the
toiler and he stored his mind with knowledge acquired from the
observation of the plants and animals of the woods and lakes and from
the association and study of the animals of the farm. He found
opportunity to read the few books which came into his possession, but
the strict regulation of the home made him read largely by snatches.
His fertile brain was employed almost constantly in the matter of
inventions. His duties on the farm comprised all activities from that
of cultivating the fields to the building of houses and barns and the
digging of wells. In his recent book "The Story of My Boyhood and
Youth," he has graphically described his work of digging a well by
chiselling for nearly eighty feet through the solid granite.

Muir remained on the farm until he had attained his majority. He then
went to the capitol of the state to exhibit some of his wonderful
inventions at the State Fair. This experience led to his employment in
a shop in Prairie du Chien, where he worked part of the year. He then
went to the University, where he earned his way during the four years
of his course. He completed his course of study there with the class
of 1.864, and then, according to his own statement, he plunged
immediately into the work of geologist, explorer, and naturalist. His
work was quite largely in the Yosemite region of California and among
the glaciers of the Sierras and Alaska. In the latter region during
the year of 1881 he explored the glacier named after him. It was,
however, his description of the Yosemite Valley that first brought him
into prominence. He made an extended search for the De Long Arctic
exploring party, which was lost in its effort to reach the far North.
Later he travelled, part of the time in company with John Burroughs,
through Hawaii, Russia, Siberia, Manchuria, India, Australasia, and
South America.

No place, however, furnished him with such rich material about which
to tell his thoughts as did his adopted home, California, and the
newer Alaska. In the later years of his life his residence was at
Martinez, California. He was married to Louise Strenzel in 1880. To
them was born a daughter, Helen, who still lives in California and who
was with her father at the time of his death.

While John Muir's experience as a pioneer in the forests of Wisconsin,
reveals the severe hardships of that life, it reveals many of the joys
as well, and shows that his active brain was open to all the avenues
of self education. Field, forest, and lake were full of opportunities
for him to observe and study, and as a result John and his brother,
David, were fine naturalists, irrespective of books upon the subject.
John's home life was rich in the companionship of brothers and
sisters, and his mother was most sympathetic and helpful to him in his
aspirations to know and to become the scholar.

The Scotch schools had given him such training as enabled him to use
books as tools throughout his life. The necessities of the farm and
home drove him to inventing means for getting things done. The result
was that he soon became known as a genius, and this inventive work
finally opened the way for his entrance into the University. So keen
was John's desire to know and to invent that it became necessary for
his father to drive him to bed too frequently, so he told the boy,
that if he wished to study, he should get up In the morning. John took
his father at his word and managed to rise at two o'clock morning
after morning to work upon his inventions. As a result of such efforts
there was made a model of self-setting saw mill, a thermometer,
clocks, an apparatus to get him up at the time desired, and later at
the University a machine to make visible the growth of plants and the
action of sunlight, a barometer, and a desk which automatically threw
up, from a rack underneath, each book in the order of his studies
during the day and withdrew it again when the time allotted for this
study had expired. To accompany this wonderful invention, he furnished
his bed with an adjustment that set him on his feet at the morning
rising hour and at the same instant lighted his lamp. These seemingly
incredible inventions are fully explained in "The Story of My Boyhood
and Youth," Houghton Mifflin Company, 1913. So eagerly did he pursue
knowledge for its own sake while he was In the University that the old
janitor was Proud to point out Muir's room to visitors many years
after his departure.

So valuable has been the work of this Investigating mind that
Wisconsin, Harvard, and Yale Universities have deemed it a pleasure to
confer upon John Muir honorary degrees. With his entire life devoted
to research, he may truthfully be said to have been one of America's
best educated men.

He contributed extensively to the organization of scientific clubs and
to scientific magazines. He was much interested In forest reservation
and did much towards the plans which the government now employs. His
work in connection with government regulated parks has been
invaluable.

As a writer Muir is one of the most interestingly instructive we have
had. His language is clear and lucid and he has a message which he
carries directly to the heart and mind of his reader. Besides his many
magazine articles he has written the "Mountains of California," 1894;
"Our National Parks" 1901"Stickeen, the Story of a Dog," 1909; "My
First Summer in  the Sierra," 1911; "The Yosemite," 1912, and the
"Story of My Boyhood and Youth," 1913. This last is one of the most
interesting and inspiring books for young people that we have today.

The Muir homestead is twelve miles from Portage, Wisconsin. There were
two farms, the Spring Fountain farm and the Hickory Hill farm. It is
upon the latter that is found the well 90 feet deep, eighty feet of
which John chiselled through solid granite.

To illustrate Muir's interesting manner of presenting his observations
we are adding the following selections from "The Mountains of
California," published by the Century Co.

SNOW BANNERS
Copyrighted by the Century Co., 1894.

The most magnificent storm phenomenon I ever saw, surpassing in showy
grandeur the most imposing effects of clouds, floods, or avalanches,
was the peaks of the High Sierra, back of Yosemite Valley, decorated
with snow-banners. Many of the starry snow-flowers, out of which these
banners are made, fall before they are ripe, while most of those that
do attain perfect development as six-rayed crystals glint and chafe
against one another in their fall through the frosty air, and are
broken into fragments. This dry, fragmentary snow is still further
prepared for the formation of banners by the action of the wind. For,
instead of finding rest at once, like the snow which falls into the
tranquil depths of the forests, it is rolled over and over, beaten
against rock-ridges, and swirled in pits and hollows, like boulders,
pebbles, and sand in the pot-holes of a river, until finally the
delicate angles of the crystals are worn off, and the whole mass is
reduced to dust. And whenever storm-winds find this prepared snow-dust
in, a loose condition on exposed slopes, where there is a free upward
sweep to leeward, it is tossed back into the sky, and borne onward
from peak to peak in the form of banners or cloudy drifts, according
to the velocity of the wind and the conformation of the slopes up or
around which it is driven. While thus flying through the air, a small
portion makes good its escape, and remains in the sky again as vapor.
But far the greater part, after being driven into the sky again and
again, is at length locked fast in bossy drifts, or in the wombs of
glaciers, some of it to remain silent and rigid for centuries before
it is finally melted and sent singing down the mountainsides to the
sea.

Yet, notwithstanding the abundance of winter snowdust in the
mountains, and the frequency of high winds, and the length of time the
dust remains loose and exposed to their action, the occurrence of
well-formed banners is, for causes we shall hereafter note,
comparatively rare. I have seen only one display of this kind that
seemed in every way perfect. This was in the winter of 1S73, when the
snow-laden summits were swept by a wild "norther." I happened at the
time to be wintering in Yosemite Valley, that sublime Sierra temple
where every day one may see the grandest sights. Yet even here the
wild gala-day of the north seemed surpassingly glorious. I was
awakened in the morning by the rocking of my cabin and the beating of
pine-burs on the roof. Detached torrents and avalanches from the main
wind-flood overhead were rushing wildly down the narrow side canyons,
and over the precipitous walls, with loud resounding roar, rousing the
pines to enthusiastic action, and making the whole valley vibrate as
though it were an instrument being played.

But afar on the lofty exposed peaks of the range standing so high in
the sky, the storm was expressing itself in still grander characters,
which I was soon to see in all their glory. I had long been anxious to
study some points in the structure of the ice-cone that is formed
every winter at the foot of 'the upper Yosemite fall, but blinding
spray by which it is invested had hitherto prevented me from making a
sufficiently near approach. This morning the entire body of the fall
was torn into gauzy shreds, and blown horizontally along the face of
the cliff, leaving the cone dry; and while making my way to the top of
an overlooking ledge to seize so favorable an opportunity to examine
the interior of the cone, the peaks of the Merced group came in sight
over the shoulder of the South Dome, each waving a resplendent banner
against the blue sky, as regular in form, and as firm in texture, as
if woven of fine silk. So rare and splendid a phenomenon, of course,
overbore all other considerations, and I at once let the ice-cone go,
and began to force my way out of the valley to some dome or ridge
sufficiently lofty to command a general view of the main summits,
feeling assured that I should find them bannered still more
gloriously; nor was I in the least disappointed. Indian Canon, through
which I climbed, was choked with snow that had been shot down in
avalanches from the high cliffs on either side, rendering the ascent
difficult; but inspired by the roaring storm, the tedious wallowing
brought no fatigue, and in four hours I gained the top of a ridge
above the valley, 8,000 feet high. And there in bold relief, like a
clear painting, appeared a most imposing scene. Innumerable peaks,
black and sharp, rose grandly into the dark blue sky, their bases set
in solid white, their sides streaked and splashed with snow, like
ocean rocks with foam; and from every summit, all free and unconfused 
was streaming a beautiful, silky, silvery banner, from half a mile to
a mile in length, slender at the point of attachment, then widening
gradually as it extended from the peak until it was about 1,000 or
1,500 feet in breadth, as near as I could estimate. The cluster of
peaks called the "Crown of the Sierra," at the head of the Merced and
Tuolumne rivers, - Mounts Dana, Gibbs, Conness, Lyell, Maclure,
Ritter, with their nameless compeers, - each had its own refulgent
banner, waving with a clearly visible motion in the sun glow, and
there was not a single cloud in the sky to mar their simple grandeur.
Fancy yourself standing on this Yosemite ridge looking eastward. You
notice a strange garish glitter in the air. The gale drives wildly
overhead with a fierce, tempestuous roar, but its violence is not
felt, for you are looking through a sheltered opening in the woods as
through a window. There, in the immediate foreground of your picture,
rises a majestic forest of silver fir blooming in eternal freshness,
the foliage yellow-green, and the snow beneath the trees strewn with
their beautiful plumes, plucked off by the wind. Beyond, and extending
over all the middle ground, are somber swaths of pine, interrupted by
huge swelling ridges and domes; and just beyond the dark forest you
see the monarchs of the High Sierra waving-their magnificent banners.
They are twenty miles away, but you would not wish them nearer, for
every feature is distinct, and the whole glorious show is seen in its
right proportions. After this general view, mark how sharply the dark,
snowless ribs and buttresses and summits of the peaks are defined,
excepting the Portions veiled by the banners, and how delicately their
sides are streaked with snow, where it has come to rest in narrow
flutings and gorges. Mark, too, how grandly the banners wave as the
wind is deflected against their sides, and how trimly each is attached
to the very summit of its peak, like a streamer at a masthead; how
smooth and silky they are in texture, and how finely their fading
fringes are penciled on the azure sky. See how dense and opaque they
are at the point of attachment, and how filmy and translucent toward
the end, so that the peaks back of them are seen dimly, as though you
were looking through ground glass. Yet again, observe how some of the
longest, belonging to the loftiest summits, stream perfectly free all
the way across intervening notches and passes from peak to peak, while
others overlap and partly hide each other. And consider how keenly
every particle of this wondrous cloth of snow is flashing out jets of
light. These are the main features of the beautiful and terrible
picture as seen from the forest window; and it would still be
surpassingly glorious were the fore and middle grounds obliterated
altogether, leaving only the black peaks, the white banners and the
blue sky.

Glancing now in a general way at the formation of snow-banners, we
find that the main causes of the wondrous beauty and perfection of
those we have been contemplating were the favorable direction and
great force of the wind, the abundance of snow-dust, and the peculiar
conformation of the slopes of the peaks. It is essential not only that
the wind should move with, great velocity and steadiness to supply a
sufficiently copious and continuous stream of snow dust, but that it
should come from the north. No perfect banner is ever hung on the
Sierra peaks by a south wind. Had the gale that day blown from the
south, leaving other conditions unchanged, only a dull, confused, fog-
like drift would have been produced; for the snow, instead of being
spouted up over the tops of the peaks in concentrated currents to be
drawn out as streamers, would have been shed off around the sides, and
piled down into glacier wombs. The cause of the concentrated action of
the north wind is found in the peculiar form of the north sides of the
peaks, where the amphitheaters of the residual glaciers are. In
general, the south sides are convex and irregular, while the north
sides are concave both in their vertical and horizontal sections; the
wind in ascending these curves converges toward the summits, carrying
the snow in concentrating currents with it, shooting it almost
straight up into the air above the peaks, from which it is then
carried away in a horizontal direction.

This difference in form between the -north and south sides of the
peaks was almost wholly produced by the difference in the kind and
quantity of the glaciation to which they have been subjected, the
north sides having been hollowed by residual shadow-glaciers of a form
that never existed on the sun-beaten sides.

It appears, therefore, that shadows in a great part determine not only
the forms of lofty icy mountains, but also those of the snow-banners
that the wild winds hang on them.