FIELD-DAYS IN CALIFORNIA 



Grecian urns, tinted like the pinkest and loveliest 

 of seashells, and fragrant with a reminiscence of 

 the sweetest of all blossoms, our darling Plymouth 

 mayflower. Yes, indeed, there was always plenty 

 of excuse for a breathing spell. 



I began with reasonable moderation, remem- 

 bering my years. For two or three days I con- 

 fined my steps to the valley-level ; walking to 

 Mirror Lake, whither every one goes, though 

 mostly not on foot, to see the famous reflections 

 in its unruffled surface just before the sunrise ; 

 to the foot of Yosemite Fall, or as near it as 

 might be without a drenching ; and down the 

 dusty road to Capitan bridge and the Bridal 

 Veil. 



For the time I was contented to look up, 

 pitching my walk low but my prospect high, as 

 some old poet said. For that, the cliffs, the falls, 

 and the wonderful pines, cedars, and firs, many 

 of them approaching two hundred feet in height, 

 afforded continual inducement. Sentinel Rock 

 loomed immediately behind my tent, a flat, thin, 

 upright slab, — so it looks at a front view, — for 

 all the world like some ancient giant's grave- 

 stone, three thousand feet in height. It was the 

 first thing I saw every morning as I glanced up 

 through the ventilator in the gable at the head 

 of my bed, and the first thing that I thought of 

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