buildings in
Mill Valley seem like dolls' houses nestling among the trees; while
far in the distance the blue waters of the bay glisten in the
sunshine, Alcatraz Island rises out of its watery bed, and San
Francisco stands silhouetted against the distant hills.

We are lost in wonder at the grand spectacle spread out before us; it
is a very fairyland of enchantment, as if brought into being by the
genii of Aladdin. For nearly an hour we watch the lights and shadows
flicker over the valley, the high lights in sharp contrast to the deep
dark purples of the canon.

On the far side of the valley the sloping hills are covered with that
most exquisite flower, the California poppy, its countless millions of
golden blossoms fairly covering the earth. It is a sun worshiper, for
not until the warm sun kisses its golden head does it wake from its
slumbers and throw open its tightly rolled petals. No wonder the
Spanish mariners sailing along the coast and seeing these golden
flowers covering the hills like a yellow carpet called this "The Land
of Fire." This beautiful flower is one of California's natural
wonders--"Copa-de-oro"--cup of gold. It is as famed in the East as in
the West, and thousands come to California to see it in its prodigal
beauty. Steps should quickly be taken to conserve this wild splendor,
and restrictions should be put upon the vandals, who, not content with
picking what they can use to beautify the home, tear them up by the
roots just to see how large an armful they can gather, scattering
their golden petals to the four winds of heaven when they begin to
droop.

[Illustration: The Turn of the Trail]

An old dead pine, whitened by many storms, its gnarled and twisted
branches pathetic in their shorn splendor, is brought into prominence
by the background of vivid green into which it seems to shrink, as if
to hide its useless naked skeleton.

But the lengthening shadows in the valley warn us to begin our
descent, and as we have no desire to sleep out on the trail without
blankets or other camp comforts, we begin our return trip by another
route. Light wisps of fog begin to gather around the top of Mount
Tamalpais, and we hasten our steps, for to be caught in a fog at this
altitude may mean a forced camp, with all its attending
discomforts.

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY]

We pause for a moment on the margin of a little lake nestling amid the
hills, its blue waters, unruffled by the wind in its sh