Its
entrances, with a wide avenue in the foreground running north and
south, are some five miles from the Market Street Ferry. The afternoon
that my friend Ashton and I visited it was clear and balmy. Just as we
were entering the park carriage I was greeted by a young friend from
the East, whom I had not seen for years; and then, more than three
thousand miles away from home, I realised how small our planet is
after all. As we rode along the flowery avenues with green lawns
stretching out on either hand and losing themselves in groups of
stately trees and hedges of shrubs and Monterey Cypress we were filled
with delight. We could see the birds, native and foreign, flying from
branch to branch of trees which grew within their gigantic cages, and
occasionally we heard the notes of some songster. Yonder, too, we saw
deer browsing, and elk and antelope. There also were the buffalo and
the grizzly bear; and apparently all forgot that, shut in as they
were in wide enclosures, they were in captivity. We could not fail to
observe the bright flower-beds on every hand, the pleasant groves, the
shady walks, the grottoes of wild design, the woodland retreats, the
sylvan bowers.
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