from various knolls. You literally go up to the halls of
learning. The whole campus and the little university city at its feet
are dominated by an enormous white C outlined on the green hills far
above. It is a stiff climb to that C, but it is a favorite walk for
ambitious students. They tell me that occasionally students come up from
Leland Stanford University and in teasing rivalry paint over the C at
the dead hour of night. The University is rich in beautiful situations
on the campus for out-of-door functions. Nothing could be lovelier than
Strawberry Canyon, a green valley with immemorial live oaks scattered
here and there; and with clumps of shrubbery behind whose greenness
musicians can conceal themselves. We saw the annual masque given by four
hundred University women in honour of Mrs. Phoebe Hearst. I carry in
memory a lovely vision of dancing wood nymphs, of living flowers, of
soft twilight colors, streaming across the greensward; and of a
particular wood nymph, the very spirit of the Spring, who played about
in irresponsible happiness, all in soft wood browns and pinks and
greens. The Greek Theatre is a noble monument to Mr. Randolph Hearst,
its donor. A great audience there is a fine sight; so symmetrical is the
amphitheatre that it is hard to realize how many thousands of people are
sitting in the circle of its stone tiers. Behind the topmost tier runs a
wall covered with blooming roses, while back of this wall hang the
drooping tassels of tall eucalyptus trees. Nothing could be more fitting
as a theatre for music and for all the noblest and most dignified
functions of a great institution.

We did not start on our long journey, which was to mount up to 8,600
miles in distance, until the 21st of April. Before that we had a
delightful northern trip of one hundred and twenty miles in a friend's
motor car; crossing the ferry and driving through Petaluma, Sonoma
Valley, and Santa Rosa, on to Ukiah. Coming through Petaluma our host
told us that we were in "Henville." I had supposed that chickens would
do well anywhere in sunny California, but not so. There are districts
where the fog gets into the throats of the fowls and kills them. Sonoma
County is particularly adapted for chicken raising and there are
hundreds of successful chicken growers in this region.

As we came through Santa Rosa, we saw the modest home and the office and
gardens of Luther Burbank.

Beyond Santa Rosa we entered what our host called the