Byways Around San Francisco Bay | Page 2

as the greater bond of kinship.
One could not begin to tell of the pleasure derived from these rambles over valley and mountain, not to speak of the health-giving exercise in the open air. They are far better than doctors' prescriptions, for they drive the cobwebs from the brain, bring refreshing slumber, a new light to the eye, elasticity to the step, and keep one young in spirit, if not in years.
[Illustration: THE LAUGHTER OF THE BROOK]
It was a bright June morning when Hal and I took the ferryboat for Sausalito, then by train to Mill Valley. It was just cool enough to make walking a pleasure, and after the clamor of the city the somber shadows of the forest, with its solitude, seemed like a benediction. On every side the giant redwoods tower hundreds of feet in air, straight and imposing, while the ground, on which the pine needles and crumbling bark have formed a brown mold, is as soft and springy to the tread as a velvet carpet.
The resinous, aromatic odor of the pines, combined with the fresh woodsy fragrance, is like a tonic. Just ahead of us we see a growth of manzanitas, with their smooth purple-brown bark and pinkish white flowers in crowded clusters, standing out vividly against the background of oaks and firs, and we sink knee-deep amid the ferns and blue and yellow lupine. It seems almost sacrilegious to trample these exquisite violet-hooded flowers beneath our feet.
Close to the trail a little mountain brook sings merrily over its pebbly bed, dodging in and out among the rocks, or chuckling in glee as it dashes in mimic fury over some unseen obstacle, as if it were playing hide and seek with the shadows along the bank. And we stop to rest and listen with pleasure to the music of its woodland melody. A song sparrow joins in the chorus with his quaint sweet lullaby, like the tinkling of Venetian glass, his notes as clear and delicate as a silver bell. He evidently believes that singing lightens his labors, for he is industriously gathering material for the new home he is building close at hand aided by his demure mate, who, in reality, does most of the work.
[Illustration: BROOK AND WATERFALL]
The trail grows steeper and harder to climb as we ascend. We hear the sound of falling water ahead of us, and around a bend in the path, and through an opening in the trees, we come upon a beautiful waterfall pouring over the rocks like a bridal veil.
We drop our cameras and scramble down the rocks, drinking cup in hand, and slake our thirst at this crystal fountain. Was ever a more delightful draught for thirsty mortals than from this little pool hidden away here in this mountain fastness? It is a place in which druids and wood-nymphs might revel, surrounded on all sides by stately trees and moss-grown rocks, fringed with ferns of all kinds, from the delicate maidenhair to the wide-spreading shield variety, bordered with blue and gold lupine (California's colors), and close to the falls, a bush thickly covered with white flowering dogwood blossoms, standing out like a rare painting against the green-and-brown background--a spot to thrill the soul of an artist. Yet how many had ever found this sylvan retreat, hidden away, as it is, from the main highway?

[Illustration]
Mountain and Valley
It is hard for us to leave the falls with all their surrounding beauty, and with reluctance we take one last look at this delightful glen planted in the heart of the wilderness, and strike out on the upward trail.
At a turn in the path, where it seems as if we were about to walk off into space, we get a glimpse through the trees of Mount Tamalpais. Towering above us with its seam-scarred sides, rent and torn by the storms of centuries, it rears its jagged dome amid the clouds. We can just make out a train of diminutive cars winding a tortuous course in and out around the curves, the toy engine fighting every inch of the steep incline, and panting like an athlete with Herculean efforts to reach the summit. Across the intervening space a hawk wheels and turns in ever-widening circles. We watch him through the glass, rising higher and higher with each successive sweep, until he fades into a mere speck in the distant blue.
Up we climb, until another view discloses the valley below us like a panorama. We creep out to the very edge, and for miles in either direction it stretches away, as if some giant hand had cleaved for himself a pathway between the mountains. We stand spellbound, entranced by the wonderful beauty of the scene, and drink long draughts of the fresh mountain air.
The dazzling splendor of the noonday sun brings out vividly