little patches of snow; and that a keen, cold wind
came pitching down between the trees into my face
from the Californian side of the summit.
At one place I saw where a moccasin track was in the snow, and leading across the trail ; a very large track I thought it was then, but now I know that it was made by many feet stepping in the same impression.
My dress was scant enough for winter, and it was chill and dismal. A fantastic dress, too, for one looking to the rugged life of the miner ; a sort of cross between an Indian chief and a Mexican vaquero, with a preference for colour carried to extremes.
As I approached the summit the snow grew deeper, and the dark firs, weighted with snow, reached their sable and supple limbs across my path as if to catch me by the yellow hair, that fell, like a school-girl s, on my shoulders. Some of the little firs were covered with snow, and were converted into pyra mids and snowy pillars.
I crossed the summit in safety, with a dreamy sort of delight, a half-articulated "Thank God!" and began to descend. Here the snow disappeared on the south side of the mountain, and a generous flood of sunshine took its place.
After a while I turned a sharp-cut point in the trail, with dense woods hanging on either shoulder, and an open world before me. I lifted my eyes and looked away to the south.
Mount Shasta was before me. For the
