the pathway. Under these hoary giants that have stood since Rome was founded grows some tender fern of last week's shower, blooms some bright flower whose life is but a summer. There is no dust here; neither is there gloom all

is freshness, sense of health, sense of the ever recurring life of nature.

The place seemed like a vast cathedral, dim vistas of arches and pillars stretching before us, the blue vault of heaven over our heads, a carpet of green beneath our feet, and the afternoon sunlight glowing through the trees like the soft tones of colored windows.

On beneath the giant trees the ponies amble in single file, and at last there is seen a little way ahead a dark russet tree trunk of girth surpassing anything we have yet come to. Assuredly a big tree, but is it one of the "Big Trees," the Sequoias? Yes, it is the first of the Big Trees, and others are seen at short intervals. These giants are the largest and the oldest trees in the world. Special names have been given to many of them. One, which is said to be the largest, is called "General Grant"; another ninety feet around, two feet above the ground, is called "Grizzly Giant." One, thirty feet in diameter, has a carriage road through its trunk, and the stump of another, twenty-four feet in diameter, forms a dancing floor. One immense tree has been hollowed by fire to the very top and through this tall, dark funnel the stars may clearly be seen at midday.

But the age of these patriarchs is more remarkable even than their size. They are the oldest living things on the

earth, some of them having lived, it is said, more than four thousand years. Splendid trees are still standing here, strong and vigorous, which had been growing many years when Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt.

The Giant Cliffs

Back to the comfortable hotel we go for food and rest, and away again on horseback early next morning for the Yosemite Valley. Three hours' easy riding brings us to another resting place, a little shanty where welcome food awaits man and beast.

All around is pine forest, no dense gloomy labyrinthine wood, but a forest of stately trees growing at intervals. Innumerable brooks and streams fill deep pools amid the rocks, then leap over great bowlders of granite, catching the sunbeams that come slanting through the tree tops.

Here and there are beds of white and blue violets, thickets of roses, lilies, also, and larkspurs, which in these wild-flower gardens grow to a height of eight or ten feet. The air is filled with the sweet fragrance of flowers and of pine, with the fresh spicy odors of summer Sierras eight thousand feet above the sea.

As we ride along in the early summer afternoon through the undulating forest, suddenly there bursts upon us a sight unlike anything we have ever seen, unlike anything we are ever likely to see until fate again turns our steps toward the Valley of the Yosemite.

If the ground had suddenly opened before our ponies'

heads, the change could not have been more abrupt. All at once the trees in front vanish, the earth dips down into an abyss, and in a blaze of noonday light we find ourselves grouped upon a bare rock, which, projecting out into space, has beneath it at one sweep of the eye the whole Yosemite.

This rock has been named "Inspiration Point," but a more fitting title would be "The Rock of Silence." For as the grandeur and beauty of the scene meets our eyes, we are filled with wonder and awe, and our lips are hushed into silence.

Standing on this rock and looking toward the northeast, the traveler sees a deep chasm or rent like hollow extending a distance of eight miles, between nearly perpendicular rocks so high that here the lofty trees below look like waving ferns.

This chasm is formed not by mountains, but by single rocks. Right in front as we look across the chasm, there stands a mighty rock, a single front of solid granite. The top of this rock lies nearly level with the top of the rock on which the observer stands; the base rests amid green grass and dark pines far below. From base to summit, it is thirtyone hundred feet. This is the "Chief of the Valley" of the Indians, "El Capitan" of the White Man.

Looking up along the line of the southern rim, the great "Half Dome" is seen. Six thousand feet it towers above

the valley. The "Cap of Liberty" is another of these wonderful single rocks. From the Nevada Fall it rises to the height of four thousand six hundred feet, smooth, seamless, and glistening.

But it is time to begin our descent into the valley. It is a continuous zigzag. The ponies know it well, and the surefooted beasts go steadily down. We are now on the level ground again, and push out from the base of the cliff into the more open meadow land.

The evening is coming on. We hurry along a level sandy track; around us are pine trees, flowers, and ever recurring glimpses of rills, clear, green, sparkling; a noise of falling water fills the air; the sunlight is streaming across the valley high above our heads. We are in the shadow as we ride; but it is not sun nor shadow, pine tree nor azalea blossom, stream nor waterfall on which our eyes are riveted; it is the rocks. Cathedral, Sentinel, The Three Brothers, El Capitan, Domes, Ramparts, call them what you will, they rise around us clear cut against the blue Californian sky, filling the earth and heaven with the mystery of their grandeur.

The Waterfalls

Those mighty rocks are indeed grand and awe-inspiring, but the most beautiful feature of the Yosemite is its waterfalls.

When that first party of explorers returned to tell the settlers at Mariposa of the wonderful valley which they had discovered, they spoke of a waterfall one thousand feet in height. In reality, the Yosemite cataract is nearly twentyfive hundred feet high, more than twice as high as Niagara, and is the highest waterfall in the world.

It is a powerful stream, the Merced River, thirty-five feet