When we reached the top of the hill on our return, and looked down upon Berkeley, the sun was obscured by a high fog, and a cold wind came up to us from the bay, making us step lively to keep the blood circulating.  We reached home late in the afternoon, worn, and leg-weary, but well satisfied with our holiday in Wild-cat Canon and the beautiful Berkeley hills.

[Illustration]

Autumn Days

  When bright-hued leaves from tree and thicket fall,
  And on the ground their autumn carpet strew;
  And overhead the wild geese honking call,
  In wedge-shaped column, high amid the blue;

  When from the sagebrush, and from mountain high,
  The quail’s soft note reechoes far and wide;
  When hunter moon hangs crescent in the sky,
  And wild deer range on rugged mountain side;

  When old primeval instincts, nature born,
  Stir in the hunter’s blood with lust to kill,
  And drive him forth with dog and gun, at morn,
  To sheltered blind, or runway ’neath the hill—­

  All these proclaim the glorious autumn days,
  When Nature spends her wealth with lavish hand,
  And o’er the landscape spreads a purple haze,
  And waves her magic scepter o’er the land.

[Illustration]

Around the Camp Fire

Did you ever camp in the woods on a moonlight night and listen to nature’s voices?  Have you seen the light flicker through the trees, and glisten on the little brook, its ripples breaking into molten silver as it glides away between banks o’erhung with fern and trailing grasses?

Did you ever sit by the camp fire after a day’s climb over rocks and treacherous trails, or after whipping the stream up and down for the speckled beauties, and watch the flames climb higher and higher, the sparks flying upward as you throw on the dry pine branches, and listen to the trees overhead, swayed by the gentle breeze, croon their drowsy lullaby?  Thus were Hal and I camped one night in June, at Ben Lomond, in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I shall never forget the glory of that moonlight night.

There is a delightful, comforting feeling about it, and somehow it always reminds me of a theater, one of God’s own handiwork, whose dome is the blue vault of heaven, studded with its millions of stars.  The silver moon just peeping over the mountain, throwing into grand relief its rugged seam-scarred sides, the calcium light; the pine trees with waving plumes, rising file on file like shrouded specters, form the stage setting; the mountain brook, on whose bosom the moon leaves a streak of molten silver, the footlights; while all the myriad voices of the night, harmoniously blended, are the orchestra.  Even the birds in their nests, awakened by the firelight, join their sleepy chirpings to the chorus.

It has something primeval about it, and one almost expects to see Robin Hood or Friar Tuck step out into the firelight.  The camp fire carries one back to the days when the red men roamed the woods, sat round their camp fires, listened to the talking leaves, and boasted of their prowess.