We had a comfortable night at Fish Camp Hotel, our fellow guests at the next table being a party of Scotch stone-cutters who had come up for a holiday from the granite quarry at Raymond where they were quarrying and shaping stones for some Sacramento public buildings. Bagpipes came out in the evening and the air was full of Scotch music and Scotch jokes. The next morning we drove on to Wawona, passing over the height of the grade and descending a little to come into the lovely Wawona meadows, in whose midst stands the old white wooden hotel which has dispensed delightful hospitality under the same landlords for forty years past. Mr. Washburn is the only one left of the brothers who built up the Wawona Hotel, and his son now bears the burden of the hotel administration. People are always coming and going at Wawona. They are either on their way to the Yosemite; or having seen the Yosemite they are on their way out with a look at the Big Trees, eight miles away, as they pass by. We left our machine at the Wawona garage and took the 12 o'clock stage drawn by four splendid horses, to drive through the meadow and along the mountain for thirty miles to the Yosemite Valley. Later, the Wawona road was to be opened to motor travel. But the leisurely way of approach by the stage was very agreeable. The drive ran through the forest. We saw a pheasant in the bracken by the roadside with her brood of little ones. She walked with her head high, affecting a careless dignity to hide her anxiety, while her babies crouched close to the ground and looked like little brown dots as they skimmed along.