At a path that seems quite accessible we climb out of the canon, and strike out across the hills.  We stop for a moment’s rest at a fence, and while we are filling our lungs with the crisp morning air we see where a spider has industriously spun his web during the night, from a stalk of ragweed to the fence corner.  The dew has settled upon it and each silken thread stands out perfectly, shining in the morning sunshine like some old jewelry made of filagree silver.  You little realize, you tiny spinner of silken fabrics, how easily your gauzy structure may be broken, and all your work come to naught; for on the fence a catbird, scolding incessantly, has one eye open for a stray titbit in the shape of a little weaver of webs, and you may help to make him an early breakfast.

The meadow larks are sending out their cheery “Spring o’ the year” from fence rail and covert, a song most sweet and inspiring.  A flock of blackbirds goes sailing past, and high overhead a killdee’s plaintive cry echoes over the valley.  From here we get a beautiful view of the bay and the Golden Gate, and in the far distance the dome of Mount Tamalpais rises above the clouds.

The ferryboats from Oakland, Berkeley, Alameda, and Sausalito are plying their ceaseless traffic from mole to mole.  White-sailed ships from foreign countries, outward bound with the tide, conveyed by little bustling tugs, look like monster white-winged gulls; and somber-hued gunboats, their portholes bristling with deadly engines of war, strain at their cables.  It is an inspiring sight, and, turning away with reluctance, we circle the hill to Cragmont Heights, stopping to rest on the rocky summit that overlooks the valley.

[Illustration:  Canon and hillside]

To our right in North Brae rises a massive pile of granite, known as “Indian Rock.”  It marks the resting place of a number of Indian warriors who once roamed the surrounding hills, and is a fitting monument to this once noble race.

This is the time of year when the birds set up housekeeping; and such debonair wooers the male birds are!  Dressed in their gay attire, they display it to the best advantage before the fair sex.  Is there anything so interesting or so amusing as bird courtship?  The rollicking song of the male, an exhibition of his vocal powers worthy of a virtuoso, is accompanied by the most comical gymnastics—­bowing, scraping, and side-stepping like a dancing-master; all of which, I am sure, is highly appreciated by the demure little lady.  I have seen birds courting in the stately figures of the minuet, crossing over and back, bowing and curtsying, in a dignified manner.  Listen to the meadow lark as he pours out his heart in a love song to his mate.  As near as I can understand him he is saying, “Spring is here, my dear, my dear,” and in a lower tone, “Let’s build a nest.”  When such an ardent wooer lays siege to my lady, using such exquisite music to further his suit, she must have a heart of stone that would not quickly capitulate to his amour.