time. Tell him to bring his family out with him. He can rely upon what
I say--and I say the land has lost its ancient desolate appearance; the
rose and the oleander have taken the place of the departed sage-bush; a
rich black loam, garnished with moss, and flowers, and the greenest of
grass, smiles to Heaven from the vanished sand-plains; the "endless
snows" have all disappeared, and in their stead, or to repay us for their
loss, the mountains rear their billowy heads aloft, crowned with a
fadeless and eternal verdure; birds, and fountains, and trees-tropical
bees--everywhere!--and the poet dreamt of Nevada when he wrote:

"and Sharon waves, in solemn praise,
Her silent groves of palm."

and today the royal Raven listens in a dreamy stupor to the songs of
the thrush and the nightingale and the canary--and shudders when the
gaudy-plumaged birds of the distant South sweep by him to the orange
groves of Carson. Tell him he wouldn't recognize the d--d country.
He should bring his family by all means.

I intended to write home, but I haven't done it.
Yr. Bro.
SAM.


In this letter we realize that he had gone into the wilderness to
reflect--to get a perspective on the situation. He was a great
walker in those days, and sometimes with Higbie, sometimes alone,
made long excursions. One such is recorded in Roughing It, the trip
to Mono Lake. We have no means of knowing where his seventy-mile
tour led him now, but it is clear that he still had not reached a