Letters to a Friend 



could be seen. The last of the lilies and spring 

 violets were left below; the winter scales were 

 still shut upon the buds of the dwarf oaks and 

 alders ; the grand Nevada pines waved solemnly 

 to cold, loud winds among rushing, changing 

 stormclouds. Soon my horse was plunging in 

 snow ten feet in depth, the sky became darker 

 and more terrible, many-voiced mountain winds 

 swept the pines, speaking the dread language 

 of the cold north, snow began to fall, and in 

 less than a week from the burning plains of the 

 San Joaquin autumn was lost in the blinding 

 snows of mountain winter. 



Descending these higher mountains towards 

 the Yosemite, the snow gradually disappeared 

 from the pines and the sky, tender leaves un 

 folded less and less doubtfully, lilies and violets 

 appeared again, and I once more found spring 

 in the grand valley. Thus meet and blend the 

 seasons of these mountains and plains, beauti 

 ful in their joinings as those of lake and land 

 or of the bands of the rainbow. The room is 

 full of talking men ; I cannot write, and I only 

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