The sun has chased frost and rose hues the higher snow peaks. Sierra Nevada (snowy) in its most interesting locality is around. Having come on the narrow-gauge railroad that connects the two largest and oldest of the mining cities with the broad-gauge of the Central Pacific, we are rounding out on the latter over the famous Cape Horn. Spring is in her first freshness. We sniff its fragrance, as we shall continue to do, following its pioneer march until our arrival at our destination to enjoy our summer at the pole, where it is most enjoyable and the only tolerable season. From apparently bare ground are flying the cyclamen banners of the johnny-jump-up. The blue sage (sun dial) gives a lake of national colors, interspersed with the scarlet of the gorgeous fireweed, whose leaves and blossoms glow alike. Mae gleefully reaches to a dogwood lily (artist’s favorite), then snatches a tuft of pink primrose that covers a bank and decorates its edge, while I cook the breakfast upon our steam heater. It is so late I make it serve for dinner also. Putting omelette and ripe strawberries beside the spinach and wild duck. As I finish Mae emits a long whistle, as a red-breasted linnet—the first—flies close to us to get our sweet food company, then sings, to earn it and call its family. The chapparal is faintly green. But the manzanita—sung of poets, or ought to be—in its immaculate green leaves adorning the winter, with red stems of eternal beauty, is covered with pink waxen sprays, as fragrant, as it is like, the lily of the valley. A momentary regret comes to leave in California this worshipped shrub. Its blossoms develop to little green-apple fruit, the size of peas, of edible flavor. Manzanita is the Indian name for little apple. Charley appreciates my feelings as he calls out, “Take a last look,” when father, to turn the tide, passes the muffins. Our glance down the mountain side falls upon a ranch, tiny in the depths; a maid of midget size throws invisible corn to mice-size chickens that flock around; Charley hurls deftly a cracker toward them that falls far short upon the mountain side. My spirits rise. To be here sings a grateful pæan in my breast. To write it is not half the story. I remember lovingly the sister cities left behind. Mining born and golden reared, with their Californian continual lawns, social halls and grand hotels for the floating population, this last much improved by the efforts of the Salvation Army, who have charmed the crowd to good behavior as they enjoy appreciatively their sweet-voiced pleadings. I look out at the country, dotted with quartz-mill chimneys, with their heavy roar, as the heavy stamp crushes the granite to free the gold imprisoned in their bastille. To all we bid good-bye, as we turn Cape Horn, and though still among the clouds, we see and hear the rushing river below. As all streams here are given to chatty hilarity, I think once more of the one where oft I have walked on trailed path.