But the camp fire wanes.  A stick burns through and falls asunder, sending up a shower of sparks.  Charred embers only remain.  We spread our blankets with knapsack for pillow.  With no sound of traffic to mar our slumbers, soothed by the wind in the branches, and the gentle song of the mountain brook for a lullaby, we are wooed to sleep on the broad bosom of Mother Earth.

[Illustration]

Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills

Since the days when Izaak Walton wrote The Complete Angler, men have emulated his example, and gone forth with rod and reel to tempt the finny tribe from dashing mountain brook or quiet river.

We, being his disciples, thought to follow his example, and spend the day in the Berkeley hills whipping the stream for the wary brook trout.

April first is the open season for trout in California, but owing to the scarcity of rain we feared the water in the brook would be too low for good fishing.  Providence favored us, however, with a steady downpour on Wednesday, which put new hope in our hearts, and water in the stream; and we decided to try our luck on Saturday afternoon, and take what came to our hooks as a “gift of the gods.”

Accordingly, we met at the Ferry Building, fully equipped, and took the boat across San Francisco Bay, thence by cars to Claremont, and from there struck into the hills.  The wind blew cold from the bay, having a clear sweep up through the Golden Gate, but as soon as we began to make the ascent our coats became a burden.

It was a hard, tedious climb over the first range of hills, but upon reaching the summit and looking down into the valley we felt well repaid for our trouble, as we gazed in awed delight upon the magnificent view spread out below us like a panorama.

The valley stretches out in either direction far below us, as if to offer an uninterrupted flow for the mountain brook through which it passes.  We counted twelve peaks surrounding the valley, their rounded domes glowing with the beautiful California poppy, like a covering of a cloth of gold, while below the peaks the sloping sides looked like green velvet.  Here and there pine groves dotted the landscape, while madrones and manzanitas stood out vividly against their dark-green background.

Orinda Creek, the object of our quest, runs through this beautiful valley, shut in on each side by the hills.  Along the trail leading to the stream blue and white lupines grow in profusion, giving a delicate amethyst tinge to the landscape.  Wild honeysuckle, with its pinkish-red blossoms, is on every side and the California azalea fringes both banks of the stream, its rich foliage almost hidden by magnificent clusters of white and yellow flowers, which send out a delightful, spicy fragrance, that can be detected far back from the stream.

[Illustration:  The Trout’s Paradise]

The meadow larks called from the hillside their quaint “Spring o’ the year,” the song sparrows sang their tinkling melody from the live oaks, catbirds mewed from the thicket, and occasionally a linnet sang its rollicking solo as it performed queer acrobatic feats while on the wing.