the ferns and flowers. There are no
tents here in our camp, but we are covered with the fragrant branches of
the spicy pines and nutmeg trees. It is a Paradise, and I think of you
always when I am in the midst of beauty.

"My trip here included an eighteen-mile walk--in one day--think of that!
I am getting as thin and strong as a greyhound. I don't wear clothes at
all, but when I do, it is the old man's overalls, which I put on to go
to town to get groceries or call for the mail. At night, our old cook
builds a huge fire of redwood logs, and then his tongue loosens and he
quotes poetry by the column or talks of his experience as a preacher,
actor, village schoolmaster, and vagabond. Without a cent he travels all
over California, as strong and rugged as any redwood tree that grows in
this wonderful valley.

"It is so secluded here that no one would suspect campers were about.
The trail leads down a steep descent. How stately it is between the huge
stems of the trees, along our beautiful creek, cool and clear as
crystal, and filled with trout and other fishes. There I sit in the sun
and allow the water to pour over my shoulders."

In another letter to Terry she writes:

"Our sylvan retreat has been somewhat disturbed by the advent of Mrs.
Johns, her children and her dog. Annie is also here, but they will not
remain long, it is too quiet, too lonely, and the nights are too
mysterious and uncanny, strange noises to disturb the slumbers of the
timid. And besides there is nothing to do, no hurry or bustle or
activity. The spirit of repose, of rest, of sweet laziness broods over
this spot, inviting us to dream away the hours among the spicy pine
trees. And for two such active ladies it is very dull here. Even when
they go to town they return disgusted and weary in spirit because of the
slowness of the natives, who are half Spanish, half Mexican. Even the
beautiful trail winding in and out among the mountains does not
compensate them for the dreadful slowness of the natives. I, however,
love this slowness and converse amicably with the natives. And when I am
a little active I go fishing, or climb about, or take a lesson in
Spanish from my old philosopher-cook. I am now learning a little peasant
song, the refrain being, 'Hula, tula, Palomita,' and it does sound so
beautiful that I repeat it over and over. It means, 'Fly, fly, little
dove!'

"The fishing I do not care for much. It is exciting for a time, but
soon grows a bi