J. had time to put in a little fishing.  The last of the Yosemites dodged behind the trees, watching him and probably envying him the lone minnow which was brought back in triumph.

The next morning we mounted horses and donkeys and rode up to Cloud’s Rest to see the glorious view over the whole Yosemite range.  Our horses picked their way most carefully over the stones and water puddles.  J. had a donkey who pretended that he was weak in all his four legs.  When he went up the mountain his fore legs stumbled at every moment, inviting J. to get off and lead him, and when he came down the mountain his back legs gave way and he sat down, so that J. could not help getting off.  The result was that J. had to lead him both up and down and could have dispensed with his services entirely.

The Bride’s Veil falls six thousand feet in a straight fall, becoming only a tiny spray and a fine mist before it reaches the rocks at the bottom.

Bright and early the next morning we drove to see Mirror Lake, which was really like a mirror.  The air was deliciously fresh and fragrant with spring flowers.  We bought some photographs and turned them upside down.  The lake and mountains were so mirrored that you could not see which was top or bottom.

The next day being Sunday, we thought we would stay quietly in Yosemite Valley, enjoying the rest and beauty of our surroundings.  The hotel was good, and the place was enticing.  Here it was that the funniest thing happened we had yet encountered.  A deputation of one knocked at our door at an early hour this morning.  We had just finished a plain Sunday breakfast of hash, fried potatoes, corn cakes, griddle-cakes, and syrup fresh from the white-pine trees.  But I am digressing, and the man is still knocking at our door.  J. opened it and let him in.  With many hums and haws he said that he had been sent to ask J. if he would read the prayers and preach a sermon in the drawing-room of the hotel, “its being Sunday and you being a minister.”

J. was a little aghast, not exactly understanding, while I was shaking with laughter at the other end of the room, and would not have interfered for worlds for fear of losing a word of the dialogue.

“I read the gospel!” cried J.

“Yes, sir.  You’re a minister, ain’t yer?”

“Well, yes, I am, but not the kind you mean.”

The little man said, condescendingly:  “We are not particular as to sect.  Whether you’re a Baptist or Methodist, it makes no difference as long as you will preach.”

J. had difficulty in explaining in his best English that preaching was not a specialty of his.  He did not add that all he did in that line was to administer occasionally a mild savon which he kept only for family use when we washed our linen at home.

The abashed ambassador left us, shaking his head, and evidently wondering why a minister, whether from Denmark or Lapland, couldn’t preach, any more than a doctor who was a doctor couldn’t practise.