direction
where there were anything like foothills to climb; but even upon us, on
reaching Strawberry Valley, at its southwestern foot, the wonderful peak
broke with as little feeling of gradual approach as if we had not seen
its head glowing grander and more real out of the blue distance
repeatedly during the last three days. When we first saw the whole of it
distinctly, it seemed to make no compromise with surrounding plains or
ridges, but rose in naked majesty, alone and simple, from the grass of
our valley to its own topmost iridescent ice.

That view was not accorded to us on our first day out from Dog Creek. It
was nearly dark when we reached the Soda Springs, nine miles south of
Strawberry,--took a draught of the most delicious mineral-water I ever
drank, more piquant than Kissingen, and cold as ice,--resisted the
seductions of a small, premature boy of eight, who issued from the
Springs Ranch to dilate agedly on the tonic properties of the water, the
relaxing virtues of the beds, and the terrors of the grim forest which
lay for us in the black night between there and Strawberry,--and,
clapping spurs to our tired horses, pushed forward with stern
determination to reach Sisson's that evening.

I think that a darker night than presently lapped us among the thick
evergreens was never travelled in. There were some streaks of blackness
a mile long, in which, literally, I could not see my horse's head. But
we had learned confidence in our animals' sagacity, and walked them,
cheerily whistling to keep each other informed of our whereabouts,
through at least six miles of road utterly unknown to and unseen by us.
It was what Eastern people call very "poky"; but the language addressed
to us by the premature boy had made it a matter of personal self-respect
for us to get to Sisson's that night. With a certain sense of triumph
over that unpleasant and dissuasive child, we saw a lantern gleam from a
corral about ten P. M., and had our interrogative hail of "Sisson's?"
answered in welcome affirmative by Sisson himself.

At Sisson's, or exploring with him in the neighborhood of Shasta, we
passed one of the most delightful weeks in our diary of travel through
any land. His house was a low, two-story building, which had run like a
verbena in all directions over a grassy level,--putting out a fresh arm
at every new suggestion of domestic convenience, until it had become at
once the most amorphous and the most comfortable dwelli