Valley. And, as we afterward ascertained, this is nearly the southern limit of the beautiful vine-maple. It was almost in vain that we looked for its scarlet-flaming thickets fifty miles farther south; and at a hundred miles it had disappeared from the landscape altogether.
The Umpqua Valley is divided from the Wallamet by a transverse range of mountains—spurs either of the Cascade or Coast Range, or both intermingled—called the Calapooyas. The road leads through the gorge of a creek, where the thick woods, in places, quite exclude the sun—almost the light of day. Bright as the weather was, and dry as the autumn had been, there was a shadow, coolness, and moisture here, among the thick-standing, giant trees, the underwood, and the ferns and mosses. A very pleasant ride on such a morning, but one which might be exceedingly uncomfortable in the rainy season, though never an uninteresting one.
The Umpqua Valley, which we had first seen in its June freshness, was now sere with the long drought of summer, followed by a rainless autumn. Still, it looked beautiful—one so soon learns to admire the soft coloring of these dry countries—the pale, russet hues of the valleys; the neutral tints in rocks and fences; the quiet, dark-green of the forests; and the clear, pale, unclouded blue of the heavens. The expression of these landscapes is that of soft repose. Nature herself seems resting, and it is no reproach to man that he, too, forgets to work, and only dreams. But the men of this period are not dreamers. Even in the sacredest haunts of Nature, they plot business, and talk railroad! We certainly thought railroad, as our eyes wandered over this beautiful, but isolated
