Leaving the San Joaquin valley and its vast wheat fields we take the stage at Berenda and head direct for the snow-capped Sierras. Gold mines now claim attention and we stop at Grub Gulch. “The diggins” here are not very rich and we journey on over the low foot hills to King’s Gulch, where a rich quartz lode is being profitably worked by electricity.

The drowse of a July noontide is in the air. Rattlesnakes wriggle through the short, dry grass. The Indians say that for every man a rattlesnake kills he gains a rattle. Most minds become panic stricken at the sight of a rattlesnake. Not so poor Lo, he slays his enemy and counts his rattles.

Three hundred miles southeast of San Francisco in the Sierra Nevada mountains lies the beautiful valley of Ahwahne, where Diana herself might deign to follow the chase, for noble game roam these Arcadian wilds, where giant sugar pines and silver firs lend beauty to the landscape.

Higher up and nearer the heart of the mountains lies another lovely vale called the Indian’s Wawona, where dwelt Naiads, Fauns and all their kindred tribe,

Here Jove himself treads not and forbears to hurl a thunderbolt.

A bird’s flight beyond this playground of the fairies, deep in the shady wood of the great sugar pines of Mariposa county are the giant Sequoias, “the big trees.” The Indians called them Waw Nonas, Big Trees.

Five thousand years ago they struck their tiny roots deep into the soil of the mountains. Before Columbus was born they tossed their giant branches against the mountain storms. They have seen the passing of the Indian and the coming of the white man.

In the Æons of past centuries there were about thirty species of this genus scattered over the earth. In Asia fossilized specimens of cones, foliage and wood have been found. To-day there are but two living specimens of these trees on earth, the Sequoia gigantea and the Sequoia sempervirens, or redwood. The former are to be found only in the Sierras, while the latter grows only on the Coast range, and all in California. The largest tree in the Sequoia grove in Mariposa county measures one hundred and eighty feet in circumference and three hundred and sixteen feet in height.

This, the largest tree in the world, has been named Columbia.

The YoSemite, the most wonderful of all valleys, lies hidden deep in the heart of the Sierras. It detracts something from the romance of the musical Spanish when one learns that YoSemite is only Spanish for grizzly bear. The first white men to enter the valley were looking for bear, not scenery.

This wonderful valley, this marvelous gorge, “touched by a light that hath no name, a glory never sung,” is a puzzle to geologists. It is a granite-walled chasm in the very heart of the mountains. The solid rock walls have split in half, one-half dropping out of sight, leaving only this beautiful valley to tell the tale.

Down the dark, frowning walls, which rise sheer from three to five thousand feet, plunge numerous waterfalls which leap two thousand feet at a bound. Through the valley flows the Merced river. Its water, clear as crystal, is full of that most delicious of all fish, mountain trout. A more pellucid stream does not flow on this continent. Up in the mountain the Merced river is a wild, roaring torrent, but through the valley it flows placidly over its white pebble bed, bathing the brown roots of the trees that fringe its banks. The trout float lazily along, leaping up to catch the insects that fly over the water, or sleeping in quiet pools and shady nooks along the bank. Here the cook drops his line out of the kitchen window and hooks trout for our breakfast.

The air is fragrant with the odor of many blossoms. The murmur of YoSemite falls lulls one to sleep as it goes leaping down five thousand feet over the granite wall to the pool below, clashing with spray the flowers that bloom on its banks.

YoSemite is truly a valley with little suggestion of the caÑon about it. The Half Dome towering high above almost conceals the trench of the river, and the gorge of Tenaya creek. Several thousand broad acres spread out in a level tract on its long narrow bottom.

El Capitan is the monarch of the world of rocks. A solid mass of granite, towering skyward three-fifths of a mile, barren except for one lone tree, an alligator pine, one hundred and twenty-seven feet high, growing on a narrow ledge, in a niche a thousand feet above its base. Its rugged face, one and one-half miles across, kissed to a soft creamy whiteness by the suns of summer and the snows of winter. That is El Capitan, the wonder of the world. The Indians call it Tutockahnulah, in honor of their greatest chief.

Scarred and hoary, the Three Brothers stand like severe hierophants, looking down into this mysterious vale.

That marvel of lakes, Mirror lake, called by the Indians Sleeping Water, adds beauty to this wonderful valley, so placid, so clear the water that the rocky wall and every tree and shrub on its banks lie on the bosom of the water as if reflected in a mirror.

“Aloft on sky and mountain wall are God’s great pictures hung.”

The legend of the lovely falls called Bridal Veil runs in this wise:

Centuries ago there lived in this valley one Tutockahnulah and his tribe. One day while out hunting, he met the spirit of the valley, Tisayac. From that moment he knew no peace. He neglected his people and spent his time in dreaming of lovely Tisayac. She was fair, her skin was white and the sun had kissed her hair to a golden brown. Her eyes reflected heaven’s own blue. Her silvery speech like a bird’s song led him to her, but when he opened his eyes she vanished into the clouds.

The beautiful YoSemite valley being neglected by Tutockahnulah, became a desert and a waste. When Tisayac returned she wept at the sight of her beloved valley. On the dome of a mighty rock she knelt and prayed the Good Manitou to restore the valley. In answer to her prayer the Great Spirit spread the floor of the valley with green and smiting the mountains broke a channel for the melting ice and snow. The waters went leaping down and formed a lake. The birds again sang and the flowers bloomed. The people returned and gave the name Tisayac to the great rock where she had knelt.

When the chief came home and learned that Tisayac had returned to the valley his love grew stronger day by day. One morning he climbed to the crest of a rock that towers three thousand feet above the valley and carved his likeness on it that his memory might live forever among his people. There is to this day a face on this rock, but whether carved there by the hand of man or by nature in some of her wild moods, remains a mystery.

Resting at the foot of the Bridal Veil Falls, one evening Tutockahnulah saw a rainbow arching around the form of Tisayac. She beckoned him to follow her. With a wild cry he sprang into the water and disappeared with Tisayac. Two rainbows now instead of one tremble over the falling water.

At the upper end of the valley stands a giant monolith two hundred feet in height, called by the Indians, Hummoo, the Lost Arrow.

Many thousands of snows ago before the foot of white man had trod these romantic wilds there dwelt in this valley the Ahwahnes, the fairest of whose daughters was Teeheeneh. Her hair, black as the raven’s wing, unlike that of her sisters, fell in ripples below her slender waist. Her sun-kissed cheeks and teeth like pearls added beauty to a form graceful as that of a young gazelle.

Kossookah, the bravest and handsomest warrior of his tribe, came a wooing the beautiful princess, wooed and won her.

All that delightful summer time these two, favored of the gods, rambled over the mountains.

The wild torrents sang of the love of Kossookah, the brave, for Teeneeneh, the beautiful. The river murmured it; the lonely mountains echoed the refrain; the very leaves of the trees whispered it; the plumy children of the air gossiped about it, while each sun of the starry sky repeated the story.

Time sped on golden wings, the mountains took on autumn tints, winter was approaching. Every member of the tribe lent a hand to assist in building a wigwam for the fair princess and her knight.

The nuptials were to be celebrated with many ceremonies and a great feast. Teeheeneh assisted by her companions would grind the acorns into flour for the wedding cakes and gather nuts, herbs and autumn leaves with which to garnish and decorate the tables; while Kossookah with the chosen hunters of his tribe would scale the cliffs or climb the walls of the caÑon to the mountain fastness in search of game.

The primitive home is completed. Kossookah and his braves depart. At set of sun he will repair to the head of the YoSemite falls and report the success of the hunt to Teeheeneh who would climb the rocks to the foot of the falls to receive it.

The messenger was to be an arrow to which Kossookah would attach feathers of the grouse. From his strong bow he would speed it far out that Teeheeneh might see it, watch for its falling, recover it and read the message.

The day was propitious. Seldom did an arrow miss its mark. Evening came and the hunters had more game than they could carry down in one trip.

Long ago in another clime Plautus said, “whom the gods love die young.”

Kossookah, proud of his success, repaired to the edge of the cliff beyond the falls, prepared the arrow, set it against the string of buffalo hide, stepped forward, when the cliff began to tremble and went down, carrying the brave Kossookah with it.

Long and lovingly did Teeheeneh wait for the signal. Night wrapped the mountains in gloom, but still Teeheeneh waited and wondered. Could Kossookah be dead? Had the chase led him so far away that he could not return in time to keep his word to Teeheeneh? He might even now be coming down the Indian caÑon.

This new thought lent hope, and hope wings to the flying feet of Teeheeneh. From rock to rock, from ledge to ledge she sped with tireless feet, escaping many perils she reached the foot of the cliff.

Finding no trace of Kossookah she paced the sands all the long weary night, hoping against hope that every hour would bring some tidings of her beloved.

The pain at her heart increased with the hours, as she sang in the low soft voice of her race a passionate love song. The gray dawn found her still pacing the sands.

Now, like a deer she springs over the rocks and up the steep ascent to the spot from whence the signal arrow was to wing its way to her feet.

Ah, there were tracks in the sand, his tracks, but her call was answered only by the echo of her own sad voice. A new fracture marked a recent cleavage in the rocks. Could it be, Oh, Great Spirit could it be that her beloved had gone down with the rocks and perished. Her heart was almost stilled with agonizing fear. She faltered a moment only. Gathering courage she leaned over the edge of the cliff. There, stilled in death, lay the form of Kossookah, in a hollow at the base of the monolith.

The shock had cleared her mind. Hastily and with steady hands now she builds a signal fire on the rocky cliff. The fire by its intensity interpreted in the light of Indian signal fires, calls for aid in distress. Slowly the hours drag by. At last help arrives. Young saplings of tamarack are lashed together, end to end, with thongs of deer skin. When all is ready Teeheeneh springs forward and begs that no hands save hers shall touch her beloved dead. Slowly strong hands lower her to the side of the prostrate form of Kossookah.

Kissing the pale lips of the dead warrior Teeheeneh unbinds the deer thongs from about her own body. Silently and deftly she winds them about the prostrate form of Kossookah. At a signal from Teeheeneh the lifeless body is drawn up. Again the improvised rope is lowered. Teeheeneh nervously clutches the pole, puts her foot in the rawhide loop and waves her hand as a signal to be drawn up.

Long and silently she gazes into the once love lit eyes of her dead hero. Her slight body sways and trembles like a reed swept by the wintry wind. Still silent, she sinks quivering on the bosom of her beloved. Gently they raise her, but her heart had broken and her soul taken its flight.

The fateful arrow was never found. The Indians say that it was spirited away by Teeheeneh and Kossookah and kept by them as a memento of their plighted troth and the close of their life on earth.

On gossamer floats, their souls were carried, by unseen hands over the mountains to the Elysian Plains beyond, where there are no pitfalls and no broken hearts.

Hummoo, the Lost Arrow, still stands, a monument to the brave Kossookah.

Of all the beautiful places in the world for a schoolhouse, surely “The Valley” is the most beautiful. One rarely hears YoSemite on the coast. It is always with a lingering caress in the voice, “The Valley.” A dainty little white schoolhouse stands in a grove on the border of a glade. Here school is in session six months of every summer. The valley is only seven miles long and one and a half miles in width at its widest point.

There are usually only five or six children of school age in the valley, but in the spring and summer people come into the valley to spend the summer. Many camp while others live at the hotel and in cottages. In many instances their children have left their home school before its close, and in order to make their grades for the ensuing year, attend “The Valley School.”

Here the student of botany may find dainty asters, tiny wild peas, larkspur, monkey flowers, great ferns, the leaves two or three feet long; wild poppies, delicate sunflowers, purple gilias and broad faced primroses. Fiery castillÈjas lend color to gray rocks and shady nooks.

Stately pines, silver firs and graceful tamaracks stand massy, tall and dark, make a landscape Mercury himself might pause to behold, no matter how urgent his errand.

The Manzanita trees are now loaded with fruit. Manzanita is Spanish for little apple. The fruit of the tree is a perfect apple about the size of a gooseberry. Leather wood, a strange shrub naked as to leaves but abloom with bright yellow blossoms grows up in the mountains.

For the student of zoology there are the bears which have their dens in the rocks a short distance from the school. Wild deer and lion roam the mountains, while trout disport themselves in the Merced river near by.

The student of astronomy may see the sun rise five times every morning, and the White Fire Maiden, by mortals called the moon, lights up YoSemite falls and the north wall of the valley long before she appears in the blue sea above.

The student in trigonometry will easily find a summer’s work, the geologist a life-time study, while the anthropologist will be interested in the few Indians who inhabit the valley.

The valley is not without its early history when white man and Indian fought for supremacy.

One of the brightest pupils in the primary class is a little Indian girl. This daughter of the red man reads well and is very proud of her accomplishment. She learned the multiplication table before the other members of her class, but does not apply it so readily.

“Tempus Fugit,” we bid farewell to YoSemite, lovely vale, and take the trail over the mountains. The hour was morning’s prime.

Up we go three thousand feet, mules, guides and tourists, over a narrow trail that runs along the rocky ledge of the gorge. The purple atmosphere hangs like a veil over the wild caÑon down which sweeps the Merced river, dashing and sparkling over rocks, tumbling over precipices or placidly flowing over its smooth rock bed.

Far above a red flame swept and we caught the odor of Calypso’s fire of cedar wood. The rising smoke mingled with the blue haze above, while the fire swept on, leaving only the blackened, charred remains of the once green forest to tell the tale.

Naiads danced in the sunny water and once methought I heard the soft, low strains of a flute played by a faun in the cool shadows of the trees which overhang the river’s brink.

Not a faun did we see, however, but we met a fool, forsooth, a motley, merry fool. This fool had a silken scarf draped about his foolish head to ward off the warm glances of Old Sol as he peered down the gorge to see what the fool was about. He tripped lightly along, did this merry fool, slipping past the sturdy little mules and their riders on the trail so narrow that one foot of the rider hung over the gorge below, so narrow in many places that one misstep of the faithful little beast meant death to himself and his rider. Past the forty tourists went this untiring fool, frightening the animals and alarming their riders with his strange headdress.

Where were the guides? Right there saying things about the fool, quieting the animals and calming the fears of their riders.

When this remarkably agile fool had reached the head of the caravan, down he would drop in the shade of a tree, his feet dangling in the dust of the trail, his Turkish headdress fluttering in the breeze, again causing the weary climbers to pause. Not every animal paused to look at the fool, the older ones were wiser.

The blue sky, the odor of the pines and the falling, gurgling, murmuring water lent an enchantment to the air, which made us forget the fool, but for a moment only. Here he came again. Untiringly he followed us to the summit of the mountains, eight thousand feet above the sea, where the soft ambient soothes like a benediction, and the soul uplifts in prayer.

As these high altitudes make many people ill we were advised to carry with us a bit of the joyful. Arrived at the summit a dainty flask slipped from the folds of a lady’s gown and fell to the earth with a thud. One of the guides picked it up and gravely presented it to the owner with the remark, “Madam, you have lost something valuable.”

As we stood looking down through the blue mist into the YoSemite below us—a landscape that would have delighted the heart and eye of a Homer—a quaint old lady who had braved the trail that she might view the valley from glacial point, exclaimed:

“It’s lovely, ain’t it? Heaven don’t need to be no purtier and I don’t reckon it is, do you? Purty name, too, but I never kin remember whether it’s Yo-se-mite or Yu-summit.”

A personally conducted party arrived just ahead of us. Mr. Personally, as we dubbed the conductor, was a gentleman, so he informed us, of many qualities. His voice was loud and commanding, he was exceedingly voluble, and from the manner in which he hurried his party about I should say that he was a man of much energy.

He came flying into the ladies’ private boudoir regardless of the confusion of shirt waists, ties, collars and riding habits that were flying through the air, commanding the ladies of his party to hasten to the dining-room for luncheon.

That repast served, Mr. Personally Conductor ordered up the stages which were in waiting to take us down the mountains on the other side. After ordering everyone else to stand back he ordered his party to “climb in,” which they meekly did.

We sat under a clump of silver firs thoroughly enjoying the scene and calm in the consciousness that as the transportation company had carried us to the top of the mountains it was in duty bound to carry us down, either by stage coach, mule back or by rope and tackle, over the rocky ledge and drop us three thousand feet to the valley below.

Two coaches were filled with “personally conducted” when the third drove up to the veranda. Mr. Personally not being in sight the driver requested us to take seats in the coach, as it was growing late and time we were off.

A brilliant man of our party, a New York lawyer, had just taken a seat by the driver, when that remarkable conductor appeared and sprang into the seat between them, pushing at Mr. Lawyer and calling lustily for Dr. Bluker, who was a member of his party. The doctor responded and grabbed our lawyer friend by the leg, attempting to pull him down.

Mr. Lawyer turned to Mr. Personally, saying, “I don’t know who you are sir, but—”

“I am a gentleman, sir,” hastily replied the conductor.

“Ah,” exclaimed the lawyer at this astonishing bit of news, “I am always glad to meet a gentleman,” and at his wife’s solicitation bowed gracefully, relinquishing the seat to Dr. Bluker, a college president who for the moment might have been taken for Sitting Bull, chief of the Sioux.

Ah, good people,