[Illustration:  They have stood the storms of centuries]

Hundreds of feet below, the waves come rolling in from the ocean, dashing with a giant’s fury against the rocks, and shattering themselves into white spray that is tossed high in air, like thousands of white fingers seeking to clutch the granite barrier.  Then receding like a roaring lion baffled of its prey, it gathers new strength, and flings itself again and again against the rocks, like a gladiator striving for the mastery.

Here, in a massive pile of rocks, is a deep, dark cavern, evidently worn by the action of the waves that have pounded against it for centuries.  Looking out upon the ocean, we see a wave mightier than all the others sweeping onward, as if challenging the rocks to mortal combat, its mighty curving crest white and seething with foam, hissing like a serpent.  On it comes, sweeping over half-submerged rocks, growling in its fury, sublime in its towering majesty, awful in its giant’s strength.

Nearing the rocks, it seems to hang suspended for a moment, then hurls itself as from a catapult against the barrier with a sound like thunder, filling the cavern to its utmost, causing the ground to fairly tremble with the impact, and sending the white spray high up the face of the cliff, to be scattered like chaff before the breeze.  And the old rock that has stood the storms of ages, looks down at its beaten and broken enemy, swirling, seething, and snarling at its feet, and fairly laughs at its puny efforts.

[Illustration:  Sea Gull rock]

Here we venture to a place that seems accessible in order to procure a photograph.  It was a foolhardy undertaking, and we knew it.  But fortune favored us, and the much-desired picture was secured.  But thus will men gamble with death to gratify a whim, for a false step or sudden vertigo would have sent us crashing on to the jagged rocks below.

Overhead the sea gulls beat the air on tireless wings, or skim close to the water, intent upon their ceaseless search for food.  Far out the lighthouse stands anchored to the rocks, the waves dashing against it, as if to tear it from its firm foundation.  But it defies them all, and sends the cheery beacon light over the waters, to guide the stately ships between the portals of the Golden Gate.

Directly opposite, the white buildings of Point Bonita stand out against the green of the hills; strongly fortified, and ready at all times to defend the entrance to San Francisco Bay against warlike intruders.

Two hardy fishermen have ventured out at low tide to a large rock and are casting their lines into the boiling waters for rock-cod or porgies, while the Italian fishing boats, with their queer striped sails, form a striking contrast to the massive steamboats, with smoke trailing from their twin funnels, that are outward bound for China or Japan.