In the Sierra 



would encounter in traveling from Labrador 

 to Florida. 



The Indians I had met near the head of 

 the canon had camped at the foot of it the 

 night before they made the ascent, and I 

 found their lire still smoking on the side of 

 a small tributary stream near Moraine Lake; 

 and on the edge of what is called the Mono 

 Desert, four or five miles from the lake, I 

 came to a patch of elymus, or wild rye, 

 growing in magnificent waving clumps six 

 or eight feet high, bearing heads six to eight 

 inches long. The crop was ripe, and Indian 

 women were gathering the grain in baskets 

 by bending down large handfuls, beating out 

 the seed, and fanning it in the wind. The 

 grains are about five eighths of an inch long, 

 dark-colored and sweet. I fancy the bread 

 made from it must be as good as wheat bread. 

 A fine squirrelish employment this wild grain 

 gathering seems, and the women were evi- 

 dently enjoying it, laughing and chattering 

 and looking almost natural, though most In- 



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