he lower shoulder of Twin
Peaks. Tired from our exertions we sank upon the soft grass. The hills
had put on their festival attire, catching up their emerald gowns with
bunches of golden poppies and veiling their shoulders in filmy scarfs of
blue lupins. The air was filled with Spring and the delicate blush of an
apple-tree told of the approach of Summer. Below, the city, noisy and
bustling a few moments ago, now lay hushed to quiet by the distance and
beyond, the sun-flecked waters of the bay stretched to a girdle of
verdant hills, up whose sides the houses of the towns were scrambling.
To the left, resting on the top of Mt. Tamalpais, could be seen the
"sleeping maiden" who for centuries had awaited the awakening kiss of
her Indian lover.

"What a glorious play-ground for San Francisco." His voice rang with
enthusiasm. "Look at the ferryboats plowing up the bay in every
direction. A man could escape from the factory grime on the water front
and in an hour be asleep under a tree on a grassy hillside."

"It is a splendid country to tramp through, but if a man wants to sleep,
why not spend less time and money by selecting a nearer place? There are
plenty of trees and grassy mounds in the Presidio and Golden Gate Park."

His eyes followed mine to the green patch edging the entrance to the bay
and then ran along the tree-lined avenue to the parked section extending
almost from the center of the city to the Pacific Ocean. Suddenly he
stood up and took his field glasses from his pocket.

"There's a granite cross just visible above the trees in Golden Gate
Park." He focused his glasses for a better view. "It's quite elaborate
in design and seems to be raised on a hill."

He offered me the glasses but I did not need them. "It's the Prayer-Book
Cross and commemorates the first Church of England service held on this
Coast by Sir Francis Drake in 1579. I think it is a shame that we
haven't also a monument for Cabrillo, the real discoverer, who was here
nearly forty years earlier. If Sir Francis hadn't stolen a Spanish
ship's chart, he would never have found the Gulf of the Farallones.
Cabrillo sailed along the coast more than half a century before
Massachusetts Bay was discovered," I added maliciously.

"I had forgotten the old duffer," he smiled back at me. Raising his
glasses again, he scanned the sombre roofs to the right. "There's
another monument," he volunteered, "rising out of the heart of the
city."

I followed the