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Show VI, staghorn lichen, and even a small patch of bear skin for the visitor to touch. What was the point, I wondered, when outside the windows I could see all these specimens were available in the forest in their natural and appropriate setting? Jesse was having a great time. He loved to be in a crowd of milling people, and he smiled, chortled, waved to everyone. That was how he was. He had already discovered his favorite trail in Yosemite, the asphalt path from Happy Isles to Vernal Falls, because there were so many people to see. I mentioned that to Carl Sharsmith, and he smiled, observing that humans were an important part of natural history. Inside the Visitor's Center one could learn quite a bit about the natural history of tourism, I supposed. Jesse simply liked people because they created such a friendly environment. And people were happy there, I realized, with other humans safely surrounding them. Perhaps they even preferred to see the forest through the windows. But I felt uncomfortable in the midst of the people who surrounded me, and I thought as I looked around that the Naturalists too, especially Carl Sharsmith, seemed ill-at-ease. This was borne out by subsequent visits. I tried to guess what was the matter. Maybe I was uncomfortable not only seeing Nature enclosed in showcases, but seeing Naturalists imprisoned in the Visitor's Center. Carl looked particularly out of place. He wore his dress uniform, Class A's, as they are called. This was not the man I remembered from my past, in his clean but threadbare and patched clothes, his old mountain boots worn down |