ings, second sight, ghost stories, etc., have never
interested me since boyhood, seeming comparatively useless and
infinitely less wonderful than Nature's open, harmonious, songful,
sunny, everyday beauty.

This morning, when I thought of having to appear among tourists at a
hotel, I was troubled because I had no suitable clothes, and at best am
desperately bashful and shy. I was determined to go, however, to see my
old friend after two years among strangers; got on a clean pair of
overalls, a cashmere shirt, and a sort of jacket,--the best my camp
wardrobe afforded,--tied my notebook on my belt, and strode away on my
strange journey, followed by Carlo. I made my way though the gap
discovered last evening, which proved to be Indian Canon. There was no
trail in it, and the rocks and brush were so rough that Carlo frequently
called me back to help him down precipitous places. Emerging from the
canyon shadows, I found a man making hay on one of the meadows, and asked
him whether Professor Butler was in the valley. "I don't know," he
replied; "but you can easily find out at the hotel. There are but few
visitors in the valley just now. A small party came in yesterday
afternoon, and I heard some one called Professor Butler, or Butterfield,
or some name like that."

[Illustration: _The Vernal Falls, Yosemite National Park_]

In front of the gloomy hotel I found a tourist party adjusting their
fishing tackle. They all stared at me in silent wonderment, as if I had
been seen dropping down through the trees from the clouds, mostly, I
suppose, on account of my strange garb. Inquiring for the office, I was
told it was locked, and that the landlord was away, but I might find the
landlady, Mrs. Hutchings, in the parlor. I entered in a sad state of
embarrassment, and after I had waited in the big, empty room and knocked
at several doors the landlady at length appeared, and in reply to my
question said she rather thought Professor Butler _was_ in the valley,
but to make sure, she would bring the register from the office. Among
the names of the last arrivals I soon discovered the Professor's
familiar handwriting, at the sight of which bashfulness vanished; and
having learned that his party had gone up the valley,--probably to the
Vernal and Nevada Falls,--I pushed on in glad pursuit, my heart now sure
of its prey. In less than an hour I reached the head of the Nevada Canon
at the Vernal Fall, and just outside of the spray discovered a