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A Phyllis Of The Sierras
Bret Harte

Page 1 of 165


A Phyllis Of The Sierras 

by Bret Harte 

CHAPTER I. 

Where the great highway of the Sierras nears the summit, and the
pines begin to show sterile reaches of rock and waste in their
drawn-up files, there are signs of occasional departures from the
main road, as if the weary traveller had at times succumbed to the
long ascent, and turned aside for rest and breath again.  The tired
eyes of many a dusty passenger on the old overland coach have gazed
wistfully on those sylvan openings, and imagined recesses of
primeval shade and virgin wilderness in their dim perspectives.
Had he descended, however, and followed one of these diverging
paths, he would have come upon some rude wagon track, or "logslide,"
leading from a clearing on the slope, or the ominous saw-mill, half
hidden in the forest it was slowly decimating.  The woodland hush
might have been broken by the sound of water passing over some

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