From Virginia’s airy situation

From Virginia’s airy situation one could look over a vast far-reaching panorama of mountain ranges and deserts; and whether the day was bright or overcast, whether the sun was rising or setting, or flaming in the zenith, or whether night and the moon held sway, the spectacle was always impressive and beautiful. Over your head Mount Davidson lifted its gray dome, and before and below you a rugged canyon clove the battlement hills, making a sombre gateway through which a soft-tinted desert was glimpsed, with the silver thread of a river winding through it, bordered with trees which many miles of distance diminished to a delicate fringe; and still further away the snowy mountains rose up and stretched their long barrier to the filmy horizon – far enough beyond a lake that burned in the desert like a fallen sun, though that. Itself, lay fifty miles removed.
Look from your window where you would, there was fascination in the picture. At rare intervals – but very rare – there were clouds in our skies, and then the setting sun would gild and flush and glorify this mighty expanse of scenery with a bewildering pomp of color that held the eye like a spell and moved the spirit like music.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The island was a long hill of ashes

The island was a long, moderately high hill of ashes – nothing but gray ashes and pumice stone, in which we sunk to our knees at every step – and all around the top was a forbidding wall of scorched and blasted rocks. When we reached the top and got within the wall, we found simply a shallow, far reaching basin, carpeted with ashes, and here and there a patch of fine sand. In places, picturesque jets of stream shot up of crevices, giving evidence that although this ancient crater had gone out of active business, there was still some fire left in its furnaces. Close to one of these jets of steams stood the only tree on the island a small pine of most graceful shape and most faultless symmetry; its colour was a brilliant green, for the steam drifted unceasingly through its branches and kept them always moist. It contrasted strangely enough, did this vigorous and beautiful outcast, with its dead and dismal surroundings. It was like a cheerful spirit in a mourning household.
We hunted for the spring everywhere, traversing the full length of the island (two or three miles), and crossing it twice – climbing ash hills patiently, and then slidding down the other side in a sitting posture, plowing up smothering volumes of gray dust.. But we found nothing but solitude, ashes and a heart breaking silence. Finally we noticed that the wind had risen, and we forgot our thirst in a solitude of grater importance; for, the lake being quiet, we had not taken pains about securing our landing place, and then – but mere words cannot describe our dismay- the boat was gone!
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

Mono Lake lies in a lifeless

Mono Lake lies in a lifeless, treeless, hideous desert, eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, and is guarded by mountains two thousand feet higher, whose summits are always clothed in clouds. This solemn, silent, sail less sea- this lonely tenant of the loneliest spot on earth – is little graced with the picturesque. It is an unpretending expanse of grayish water, about a hundred miles in circumference, with two islands in its center, mere upheavals of rent and scorched and blistered lava, snowed with gray banks and drifts of pumice-stone and ashes, the winding sheet of the dead volcano, whose vast crater the lake has seized upon and occupied.
The lake is two hundred feet deep, and its sluggish waters are so strong with alkali that if you only dip the most hopelessly soiled garment into them once or twice and wring it out, it will be found as clean as if it had been through the ablest of washerwomen’ hands. While we camped there our laundry work was easy. We tied the week’s washing astern of our boat, and sailed a quarter of a mile, and the job was complete, all to the wringing out. If we threw the water on our heads and gave them a rub or so, the white lather would pile up three inches high.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The ground was deeply carpeted

The ground was deeply carpeted with dry pine needles, and the fire touched them off as if they were gunpowder. It was wonderful to see with what fierce speed the tall sheet of flame travelled ! My coffee pot was gone, and everything with it. In a minute and a half the fire seized upon a dense growth of dry manzanita chaparral six or eight feet high, and then the roaring and popping and crackling was something terrific. We were driven to the boat by the intense heat, and there we remained, spell- bound.
Within half an hour all before us was a tossing, binding tempest of flame! It went surging up adjacent ridges - surmounted them and disappeared in the canons beyond – burst into view upon higher and farther ridges, presently – shed a grander illumination abroad and dove again – flamed out again, directly higher and still higher up the mountain side –threw out skirmishing parties of fire here and there, and sent them trailing their crimson spirals away among remote ramparts and ribs and gorges, till as far as the eye could reach the lofty mountain fronts were webbed as it were with a tangle network of red lava streams. Away across the water the crags and domes were lit with a ruddy glare and the firmament above was a reflected hell!
Every feature of the spectacle was repeated in the glowing mirror of the lake! Both pictures were sublime, both were beautiful; but that in the lake had a bewildering richness about it that enchanted the eye and held it with the strongest fascination.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The station men wore pantaloons of coarse, country woven stuff

The station men wore pantaloons of coarse, country woven stuff and into the seat and the inside of the legs were sewed ample additions of buckskin, to do the duty in place of leggings, when the man rode horseback so the pants were half dull blue and half yellow, and unspeakably picturesque. The pants were stuffed into the tops of high boots, the heels whereof were armed with great Spanish spurs, whose little iron clogs and chains jingled every step . The man wore a huge beard and mustachios, and old slouch hat, a blue woolen shirt, no suspenders, no vest, no coat – in a leathern sheath in his belt, a great long “navy” revolver (slung on the right side, hammer to the front), and projecting from his boot a horn handled bowie knife. The furniture of the hut was neither gorgeous nor much in the way. The rocking chairs and sofas were not present, and never had been, but they were represented by two three legged stools, a pine board bench four feet long, and two empty candle boxes . the table was a greasy board on stilts and the tablecloth and napkins had not come – and they were not looking for them either. A battered tin platter, a knife and fork, and a tin pint cup, were at each man’s place, and the driver had a queens ware saucer that had seen better days. Of course this duke sat at the head of the table. There was one isolated piece of table furniture that bore about it a touching air of grandeur in misfortune. This was the caster. It was German silver, and crippled and rusty, but it was so preposterously out of place there that it was suggestive if a tattered exiled king among barbarians, and the majesty of its native position compelled respect even in its degradation. There was one cruet left, and that was a stopperless, fly speckled , broken necked thing, with two inches of vinegar in it, and a dozen preserved flies with their heels up and looking sorry they had invested there.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

By the door of the station-keeper’s den

By the door of the station-keeper’s den, outside , was a tin wash basin, on the ground. Near it was a pail of water and a piece of yellow bar soap, and from the eaves hung a hoary blue woolen shirt, significantly – but this latter was the station keeper’s private towel, and only two persons in all the party might venture to use it – the stage driver and the conductor. The latter would not, from a sense of decency; the former would not, because he did not choose to encourage the advances the advances of a station keeper. We had towels – in the valise; they might as well have been in Sodom and Gomorrah. We used our handkerchiefs, and the driver his pantaloons and sleeves. By the door inside was fastened a small old fashioned looking glass, with two little fragments of the original mirror lodged down in one corner of it. This arrangement afforded a pleasant double-barreled portrait of you when you looked into it, with one half of your head set up a couple of inches above the other half. From the glass frame hung the half of a comb by a string – but if I had to describe that patriarch or die, I believe I would order some sample coffins. . It had come down from Esau and Samson, and had been accumulating hair ever since – along with certain impurities. In one corner of the room stood three or four rifles and muskets, together with horns and pouches of ammunition.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The station buildings were long

The station buildings were long, low huts, made of sun dried , mud colored bricks, laid up without mortar (adobes, the Spaniards call these bricks, and Americans shorten to ‘dobies). The roofs, which had not slant to them worth speaking of, were thatched and then sodded or covered with a thick layer of earth, and from this sprung a pretty rank growth of weeds and grass. It was the first time we had ever seen a man’s front yard on top of his house. The buildings consisted of barns, stable room for twelve or fifteen horses, and a hut for an eating-room for passengers. This latter had bunks in it for the station-keeper and a hostler or two. You could rest your elbow on its eaves, and you had to bending order to get in at the door. In place of a window there was a square hole about large enough for a man to crawl through , but the ground was packed hard. There was no stove, but the fire place served all the needful purposes. There were no shelves, no cupboards, no closets. In a corner stood an open sack of flour, and nestling against its base were a couple of black and venerable tin coffee pots , a tin tea-pot, a little bag of salt, and a side of bacon.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”