see nothing of any city. Nothing but thickets of peach, plum, and apple
trees, all in full bloom, surround the spot where I alight and begin to
look around for some indications of the city. "Where is Willard City. "
I inquire of a boy who comes out from one of the orchards carrying a can
of kerosene in his hand, suggestive of having just come from a grocery,
and so he has. " This is Willard City, right here," replies the boy; and
then, in response to my inquiry for the hotel, he points to a small gate
leading into an orchard, and tells me the hotel is in there.

The hote l -like every other house and store here - is embowered amid an
orchard of blooming fruit-trees, and looks like anything but a public
eating-house. No sign up, nothing to distinguish it from a private
dwelling; and I am ushered into a nicely furnished parlor, on the neatly
papered walls of which hang enlarged portraits of Brigham Young and other
Mormon celebrities, while a large-sized Mormon bible, expensively bound
in morocco, reposes on the centre-table. A charming Miss of -teen summers
presides over a private table, on which is spread for my material benefit
the finest meal I have eaten since leaving California. Such snow-white
bread. Such delicious butter. And the exquisite flavor of "spiced peach-
butter" lingers in my fancy even now; and as if this were not enough
for "two bits" (a fifty per cent, come-down from usual rates in the
mountains), a splendid bouquet of flowers is set on the table to round
off the repast with their grateful perfume. As I enjoy the wholesome,
substantial food, I fall to musing on the mighty chasm that intervenes
between the elegant meal now before me and the "Melican plan-cae " of
two weeks ago. "You have a remarkably pleasant country here, Miss," I
venture to remark to the young lady who has presided over my table, and
whom I judge to be the daughter of the house, as she comes to the door
to see the bicycle.