MAY 24.
The white man calls it Bridal Veil. To the Indian it is Po-ho-no, Spirit of the Evil Wind.
The white man, in passing, pauses to watch the filmy cloud that hangs there like a thousand yards of tulle flung from the crest of the rocky precipice, wafted outward by the breeze that blows ever and always across the Bridal Veil Meadows. By the light of the mid-afternoon the veil seems caught half-way with a clasp of bridal gems, seven-hued, evanescent; now glowing with color, now fading to clear white sun rays before the eye.
BERTHA H. SMITH,
in Yosemite Legends.
MAY 25.
MATCHLESS YOSEMITE.
High on Cloud's Rest, behind the misty screen,
Thy Genius sits! The secrets of thy birth