into the groves meadows of Yosemite The new wagon road has opened out some very striking views both up down the Valley. How
simple all the problems are that I have been working last winter Yet how hopeless seems the work of opening other eyes, by
mere words No one will ever know the grandeur of this Sierra Sculpture in its entirety without the same study on the spot
No one of the rocks seems to call me now, nor any of the distant mountains Surely this Merced Tuolumne Chapter of my life
is done. I have been out on the river bank with your letters. How good wise they seem to be. You wrote better tan you knew
All together they form a precious volume whose sentences are more intemately connected with my mountain work than any one
will ever be able to appreciate An ansel came as I sat reading alighting in the water with a delicate graceful glint on his
bosom How pure is the morning light on the great gray wall how marvalleous the subdued lights of the moon. The nights are
wholly enchanting. I will not try tell the Valley. yet I feel that I am a stranger here I have been gathering you a handful
of leaves Show them to dear Keith give some to Mrs McChesney They are probably the last of Yosemite that I will ever give
you I have not seen Mrs H hope I shall not. I will go out in a day or so Farewell. I seem to be more re illegible ly leaving
you here than there Keep these long pages for they are a kind of memorandum of my walk after the strange Oakland epoch I may
want to copy some of them when I have leisure. Remember me to my friends. I trust you are not now so sorely over laden Good
night Keep the golden rod the Yarron. they are Auld lange syne Ever lovingly yours John Muir