n countries, outward bound with the tide, conveyed
by little bustling tugs, look like monster white-winged gulls; and
somber-hued gunboats, their portholes bristling with deadly engines of
war, strain at their cables. It is an inspiring sight, and, turning
away with reluctance, we circle the hill to Cragmont Heights, stopping
to rest on the rocky summit that overlooks the valley.

[Illustration: CANON AND HILLSIDE]

To our right in North Brae rises a massive pile of granite, known as
"Indian Rock." It marks the resting place of a number of Indian
warriors who once roamed the surrounding hills, and is a fitting
monument to this once noble race.

This is the time of year when the birds set up housekeeping; and such
debonair wooers the male birds are! Dressed in their gay attire, they
display it to the best advantage before the fair sex. Is there
anything so interesting or so amusing as bird courtship? The
rollicking song of the male, an exhibition of his vocal powers worthy
of a virtuoso, is accompanied by the most comical gymnastics--bowing,
scraping, and side-stepping like a dancing-master; all of which, I am
sure, is highly appreciated by the demure little lady. I have seen
birds courting in the stately figures of the minuet, crossing over and
back, bowing and curtsying, in a dignified manner. Listen to the
meadow lark as he pours out his heart in a love song to his mate. As
near as I can understand him he is saying, "Spring is here, my dear,
my dear," and in a lower tone, "Let's build a nest." When such an
ardent wooer lays siege to my lady, using such exquisite music to
further his suit, she must have a heart of stone that would not
quickly capitulate to his amour.

The bobolink, that little minstrel of the marshes, teeters up and down
on a swaying cattail, and flirts most scandalously, as he calls to his
lady love: "What a pink, what a pink, little minx, little minx! You're
a dear, dear, dear."

But we cannot stay to spy upon such love scenes, and we strike out on
the trail for home, after listening with pleasure, as well as profit,
to these feathered musicians.

[Illustration]

Wild-cat Canon

It was on February 22, Washington's Birthday, that Hal and I started
in the early morning from Berkeley, for a trip to Wild-cat Canon. The
birds are singing their _Te Deum_ to the morning sun. The California
partridges run along the path ahead of us, their waving crests bobbing
up and down as they scurry ou