There was nothing for it but to go back to Wawona, which we did. When we reached there, we found that we had a broken spring. We spent several days waiting for a new spring to come up from Raymond. In the meantime we discovered the loveliness of the Wawona meadows and explored the walks about the hotel. We went down to the blacksmith shop to see the big stage horses shod and the smith handle them as if they were his children. "California is God's country," said he. "I came here forty years ago, but I aint done much for myself until the last two or three years." At last the motor car was ready, and we had once more a drive through the forest, stopping for a delightful dinner and evening at Miami Lodge. The next day we were dropping down from the high Sierras by the Mariposa road. Turning to the right, before reaching Raymond, the foothills of the Sierras made very rough, broken country for travel, and our road was indifferent. We passed poor little ranches dropped in among the rocks and gulleys. We saw lonely looking women sitting on the porches of unpainted wooden ranch houses, and finally we came to Mariposa, which reminded me of Bret Harte more than any other place I had seen in California. [Illustration: 1. In the Lower Sierras, California. 2. Eastern Slope of Sierras.] Mariposa is a mining town from which the miners have departed. In mining days it was a busy center, with miners eating and drinking, and walking up and down its little street. But some of the mines have been closed, the miners have gone to other districts, and the town is left high and dry. A few men were hanging idly about in front of the dreary looking little stores. The two places that seemed to be alive were a general department store kept by an Italian, and a little restaurant kept by a Chinaman. We bought our gasoline from Mr. Trabucco and went in to have some tea at John Chinaman's place. He was a shrewd looking, middle-aged Chinaman in a very pessimistic mood. "You see dis town? You see more'n I do," he said sadly. We assured him that we saw very little town. Indeed, Mariposa is just the sad little shell of a town from which most of the life has moved away, leaving the dingy little wooden buildings along the dusty street. Our Chinaman charged us fifteen cents apiece for a single cup of tea, flanked by some very stale store cookies, which he took from the show window. He evidently felt that he should make hay while the sun was shining. From Mariposa, we had a long afternoon drive over lonely, rolling country to Snelling. When we reached its one little hotel, we found that we were too late for supper. California has an eight hour law, and domestic servants cannot be kept over time. In large hotels they have different shifts; but in country places the landlord must let his cook go at the appointed time. However, our host was disposed to be accommodating. "The missus and I are always here," he said, and went over to buy a bit of steak for our supper.