XXVI.
A WONDROUS VALLEY, AND A DESERT THAT BLOSSOMS
LIKE THE ROSE.
I.
the Yosemite, currently spoken of as the "Valley," is comprised in the belt formed by drawing lines across the State from San Francisco and Monterey respectively. It is a wild, strange nook among the Sierras, one of the few places not only not disappointing, but worthy of far more praise than has ever been bestowed upon it. It is like one of those mysterious regions on the outskirts of
the fairy-land of the story-books a standing resource of adventure to all the characters who enter it, and it is proper enough that our earthly paradise of Southern California should have such a region of enchantment also adjoining it.
I reached it by stage-ride of sixty miles, from the Southern Pacific Railroad, at Madera, to Clark's Station, and thence by stage and horseback of twenty-live miles to the Valley. The autumn days were lovely there. The
foliage, turned by a local climate quite as severe as that of New England, glowed with a vivid richness. The Merced River, a gentle stream, pursuing a devious way in the bottom, which is as level as a floor, reflected the color from many a mirror-like pool and sudden bend. Walls of rock rise on either hand to an elevation of three-quarters of a mile, varying from one-half to one-
