along the Park drives. We stood under the Trees, of which there are some
five hundred, gazing up at their distant tops. We amused ourselves by
measuring their enormous girths with our arms. Most of the time we
simply gazed at them from one vantage point and another, lost in wonder
at their height, so much greater than we had dreamed, and at their bulk,
so enormous as to be difficult to take in. The Big Trees were far
bigger, far grander, far more beautiful in their coloring than we had
been prepared for. When the afternoon sunlight struck their trunks and
they glowed with the wonderful soft, deep red which is their color, we
were enchanted. We felt awed, too, not only by their great size, but by
their great age. We were in the presence of hoary old men, a detached
little company of Ancients who were living long, long before our
generation ever came upon the scene, and who had passed through much of
the world's history. It was with a glowing sense of satisfaction and
happiness and wonder that we came away from our leisurely day among the
Trees. Some day we hope to go back and to repeat that experience.

[Illustration: 1. Camp Ahwahnee, Yosemite Valley. 2. Grizzly Giant,
Mariposa Big Trees. 3. Yosemite Falls. 4. Cabin in Mariposa Grove.]

We met later a gentleman who said that he had spent such a day, had had
a supper with the forest keeper who sells photographs and souvenirs in
his little cottage, and then had lain down to sleep on the pine needles
under the great Trees themselves. "I saw the stars pinnacled in their
branches," said he.

We had a comfortable night at Fish Camp Hotel, our fellow guests at the
next table being a party of Scotch stone-cutters who had come up for a
holiday from the granite quarry at Raymond where they were quarrying and
shaping stones for some Sacramento public buildings. Bagpipes came out
in the evening and the air was full of Scotch music and Scotch jokes.
The next morning we drove on to Wawona, passing over the height of the
grade and descending a little to come into the lovely Wawona meadows, in
whose midst stands the old white wooden hotel which has dispensed
delightful hospitality under the same landlords for forty years past.
Mr. Washburn is the only one left of the brothers who built up the
Wawona Hotel, and his son now bears the burden of the hotel
administration.

People are always coming and going at Wawona. They are either on their
way to the Yosemite; or having seen the Yosem