In all ages, and among all people, certain groves have been held sacred. The tree-alphabet of the Chinese, the curling roofs of the truncated pagodas, the numerous legends of the tree and vine, symbolizing life, are universal testimonials of this ancient veneration. The trees giving shelter to Yermah defied the Ice Age and escaped destruction in the flood. There are giants in Mariposa Grove to-day contemporaneous with the Star of Bethlehem and the departing grandeur of Egypt. The green spires of this living forest, three hundred feet high, filter the air through innumerable branches, making one shiver at their mysterious whistle, like the rustling silk robes of an unseen company. The mystic and appalling are there as well. How often in active life the specter stands among men and trees! The very strength gained by such close lifting of fibers during decades of existence will not permit these giants to seek rest prone upon the welcoming breast of Mother Earth. Still must they stand, bleached by sun, beaten by rain, and buffeted by winds, leading a spectral existence when remains of other members of the forest have silently sunk to rest, and are no longer distinguishable in substance from the very soil from which they sprung. For a century or so there is a struggle among the children of the fallen monarch. At last but few remain, to become giants in their turn—set on the rim of the pit formed by the decaying roots of their ancient ancestor. Rings of this kind can still be found, showing the broken roots projecting like the staves of a barrel, overgrown with ferns and wild oxalis, or filled to the brim with fresh spicy redwood sprouts. No one who visits the Yo-Semite to-day, can imagine the abundance in early times of wild flowers and luxuriant grasses reaching up to the saddle-girths, or the almost total absence of undergrowth and brush in the groves, thus affording clear, open views from either side. The valley lies nearly in the center of the State, north and south, midway between the east and west bases of the Sierras. * * * * * Not a sound broke the impressive stillness as Yermah caught his first grand view from Inspiration Point, save occasional chirps and songs of birds, or the low, distant sigh of waterfalls in the vertical-walled chasm below. Here and there was a dark yellow pine rooted in the crevice, and clinging tenaciously to its dizzy elevation. The wind swept these trees to and fro, and there was a faint, plaintive murmur in their leaves as of pain.