And yet a few minutes' observation, with the interpretation of Bob Watson, made it as clear as the adding of two to two.

The lightning had struck the tree, and shot the top off as if lifted and carried away bodily, at the same time scattering the pieces in every direction.

Then, it had seemed to jump from this tree to another, out of the side of which it had torn a large piece, as if, like a wild beast in angry fury, it had bitten out a giant mouthful of something it hated.

It had then jumped--where?
There was no sign.

It simply disappeared.
Near by we found quite a nursery of graceful, dainty and attractive young firs; "Noah's ark trees," I always feel like calling them, for they remind one constantly of the trees found in the Noah's arks of childhood days, made by the Swiss during the long winter nights in their mountain chalets, where the trees are of a similar character to those of the Sierras.
Near to the point at which we turn to the left for Watson's Peak, and to the right for Watson's Lake, is a delicious, cool, clear spring, which I instinctively called, "the Spring of the Angels." When Bob asked the _why_ of the name, the answer quickly came: "It is up so high and is so pure and good." The elevation is about 8000 feet.