ks and gulleys. We saw lonely looking women sitting on the
porches of unpainted wooden ranch houses, and finally we came to
Mariposa, which reminded me of Bret Harte more than any other place I
had seen in California.

[Illustration: 1. In the Lower Sierras, California. 2. Eastern Slope of
Sierras.]

Mariposa is a mining town from which the miners have departed. In mining
days it was a busy center, with miners eating and drinking, and walking
up and down its little street. But some of the mines have been closed,
the miners have gone to other districts, and the town is left high and
dry. A few men were hanging idly about in front of the dreary looking
little stores. The two places that seemed to be alive were a general
department store kept by an Italian, and a little restaurant kept by a
Chinaman. We bought our gasoline from Mr. Trabucco and went in to have
some tea at John Chinaman's place. He was a shrewd looking, middle-aged
Chinaman in a very pessimistic mood. "You see dis town? You see more'n I
do," he said sadly. We assured him that we saw very little town. Indeed,
Mariposa is just the sad little shell of a town from which most of the
life has moved away, leaving the dingy little wooden buildings along the
dusty street. Our Chinaman charged us fifteen cents apiece for a single
cup of tea, flanked by some very stale store cookies, which he took from
the show window. He evidently felt that he should make hay while the sun
was shining. From Mariposa, we had a long afternoon drive over lonely,
rolling country to Snelling. When we reached its one little hotel, we
found that we were too late for supper. California has an eight hour
law, and domestic servants cannot be kept over time. In large hotels
they have different shifts; but in country places the landlord must let
his cook go at the appointed time. However, our host was disposed to be
accommodating. "The missus and I are always here," he said, and went
over to buy a bit of steak for our supper. We were very tired after the
extremely rough driving in the foothills, and slept heavily.

Snelling lies in a valley where there is evidently plenty of warmth and
water. The fig trees are wonderfully luxuriant. We passed some
beautiful grain ranches the next morning and so came to Stockton, where
at the Hotel Stockton we saw the red, white, and blue sign that was to
guide us across the continent. We were at last on the Lincoln Highway,
the old road with the new name which