rden. On the higher
ground the beautiful Zygadene plant, with its pompon of white
star-shaped flowers, and long graceful leaves, grew in profusion.
Maidenhair ferns, the only variety we saw, sent forth their delicate
streamers from every nook and cranny, forming a carpet of exquisite
texture.

When we reached the top of the hill on our return, and looked down
upon Berkeley, the sun was obscured by a high fog, and a cold wind
came up to us from the bay, making us step lively to keep the blood
circulating. We reached home late in the afternoon, worn, and
leg-weary, but well satisfied with our holiday in Wild-cat Canon and
the beautiful Berkeley hills.

[Illustration]

Autumn Days

When bright-hued leaves from tree and thicket fall,
And on the ground their autumn carpet strew;
And overhead the wild geese honking call,
In wedge-shaped column, high amid the blue;

When from the sagebrush, and from mountain high,
The quail's soft note reechoes far and wide;
When hunter moon hangs crescent in the sky,
And wild deer range on rugged mountain side;

When old primeval instincts, nature born,
Stir in the hunter's blood with lust to kill,
And drive him forth with dog and gun, at morn,
To sheltered blind, or runway 'neath the hill--

All these proclaim the glorious autumn days,
When Nature spends her wealth with lavish hand,
And o'er the landscape spreads a purple haze,
And waves her magic scepter o'er the land.

[Illustration]

Around the Camp Fire

Did you ever camp in the woods on a moonlight night and listen to
nature's voices? Have you seen the light flicker through the trees,
and glisten on the little brook, its ripples breaking into molten
silver as it glides away between banks o'erhung with fern and trailing
grasses?

Did you ever sit by the camp fire after a day's climb over rocks and
treacherous trails, or after whipping the stream up and down for the
speckled beauties, and watch the flames climb higher and higher, the
sparks flying upward as you throw on the dry pine branches, and listen
to the trees overhead, swayed by the gentle breeze, croon their drowsy
lullaby? Thus were Hal and I camped one night in June, at Ben Lomond,
in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I shall never forget the glory of
that moonlight night.

There is a delightful, comforting feeling about it, and somehow it
always reminds me of a theater, one of God's own handiwork, whose dome
is t