These are lofty reservoirs from which the long days glowing with sunshine send down streams of water at whose touch the deserts bloom. The eye is refreshed as we make a closer acquaintance of the mountains. Where water flows and trees "wag their high tops" there is hope of homes. There are canyons that cause one to smile at remembrances of what were considered the dizzy gorges of the Alleghenies. There is a glow as of molten lead in one corner of a misty valley far away. It is Salt Lake, the Dead Sea of America. Beyond this at an immense elevation is a lake with the tinge of the indigo sky of the tropics. If one could stir a portion of the Caribbean Sea into Lake Geneva, the correct tint could be obtained. Thirty miles of snow sheds announce progress in the journey to the Pacific. There is still heat and dust, but beside the road are villages; and there are even fountains. Each stream is a treasure, and its banks are rich with verdure. There are sleek cows on bright grass. The mountains are no longer forbidding. They take on robes of loveliness. The valleys broaden and on the easy slopes there are orchards where the oranges glisten. There are clusters of grapes. We have come upon that magic land, California. There is golden music in the name. This is a conquest. The war in which it was won was not one of philanthropy. We gathered an empire. General Merritt never minded the weather, whether the wind blew or not, and instead of holding his ship for several hours after the appointed time, wanted to know five minutes after 10 o'clock whether the time for starting was not 10 o'clock and by whom the boat was detained. At ten minutes after 10 the gangplank was swung free, with a desperate man on it who scrambled on with the help of long legs and a short rope. As the ship swung from the dock and got a move on there were thousands of men and women exalted with emotion, and there were crowded steamers and tugs toppling with swarming enthusiasts resounding with brass bands and fluttering with streaming flags. The ladies were especially frantic. Spurts of white smoke jetted from forts and there were ringing salutes. Steam whistles pitched a tune beyond the fixed stars. The national airs with thrilling trumpet tones pierced the din, and a multitude of voices joined with the bands giving words and tone to the magnetic storm. How many miles the Newport was pursued I cannot conjecture. There were tall ladies standing on the high decks of tugs that were half buried in the foam of the bay, but as long as they could hold a "Star Spangled Banner" in one hand, and a few handkerchiefs in another, their skirts streaming in grace and defiance before the rising gale, they sang hosannas, and there were attitudes both of triumph and despair as the fair followers, dashed with spray, gave up the chase, passionately kissing their hands god-speed and good-by. This was going to the Indies through the Golden Gate!