Through the clear air of the Sierras this valley looked like a toy, a
miniature. Every detail was distinct. Bob made out very plainly the
pleasant trees, and a bridge over the river, and the roofs of many
houses, and the streets of a little town.
To the left the wagon road dropped away down the steep side of the
mountain. Bob's eye could follow it, at first a band, then a ribbon,
finally a tiny white thread, as it wound and zigzagged, seeking its
contours, until finally it ran out on the level and rested at the bridge
end. Opposite, on the other mountain, he thought to make out here and
there faint suggestions of another way.
Though his eye thus embraced at a glance the whole length of the route,
Bob found it a two-hours' journey down. Always the walls of the
mountains rose higher and higher above him, gaining in majesty and awe
as he abandoned to them the upper air. Always the round valley grew
larger, losing its toy-like character. Its features became, not more
distinct, but more detailed. Bob saw the streets of the town were
pleasantly shaded by cotton woods and willows; he distinguished dwelling
houses, a store, an office building, a mill building for crushing of
ore.
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