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01693 3 Dog on ice, trees, streams, a illegible Glacier meadows mountain floras All in fading memory mingled In dullest
prose or doggerel jingled. My useless clothes are falling fast Before this wilting scorching blast. My broiling flesh is gone
or going Like snow, in sunshine melting flowing Wit, sense, all I fear will follow. E'en now my skull sounds light hollow.
Thank Heaven the little left will be Soon cooling on the breezy sea Then looking back I'll blow my slogan Like that brave
sailor Paddy Grogan And on every wave of the heaving main I'll find my friends joys again. New York June 22, 1893. The
weather is cool now. For three days the thermometer was above 90 - mostly 95 98 - I began to suffer. But Johnson Kept taking
out on the water so I pulled through. - without much harm. Love to all. Will write the children a line tomorrow. Ever yours
John Muir