Excerpt from The Lost Mine of the Mono: A Tale of the Sierra Nevada
What frail, intangible threads sometimes serve in this world to convey impressions over the tides of time! As an instance, Sutcliff was down to-day, like a breath from the hills, in an attempt to interest me once more in the lost mine. But it was not his appearance - welcome as that always is, - that has brought to mind this beautiful October day all those half-remembered, half-forgotten details of that story of the Mono, and our incredible connection therewith, bridging as it were the past and the present, the seen and the unseen. For long hours before - since the earliest morn in fact, - had my memory been occupied in the turning of its pages, and brought about by what frail prompting do you think? A subtle, immaterial something in the mellow radiance of the sun in its play over our rifled vineyards, and in the subdued intonation in the murmur of the wind that springs so balmily from the north-west - the last of our trades, - and stirs into a dreamy and half-melancholy life the long collonades of russetting poplars that rise here and there upon the landscape, white-stemmed, high into the glory of our skies. Nothing more.
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