eft Mount
Hamilton rises out of the purple haze, while to the right Mount Diablo
pushes its great bulk above the clouds.

[Illustration: AN UNINTERRUPTED VIEW]

It is claimed that twenty or more cities and towns can be seen from
the top of Mount Tamalpais. Whether this be true or not, I cannot say,
but it is certain that we saw a good many, near and far, and it is
also true that on a clear day the Sierras, one hundred and fifty miles
distant, can be plainly seen.

From the hotel near the summit one gets an unsurpassed view of San
Francisco Bay, the Cliff House, and the Farallone Islands; and if you
are fortunate enough to see the sun sink behind the ocean, between the
portals of the Golden Gate, you will never forget the sight. All the
colors of the artist's palette are thrown across the sky, changing
from red to orange, from orange to purple; each white-capped wave is
touched with a rosy phosphorescence, and scintillates like a thousand
jewels.

To ascend Mount Tamalpais on foot, following the railroad, is not a
difficult task, and is well worth the effort, for then you can take
time to enjoy the varied views that burst upon your vision at each
turn of the road, and linger as long as you like over each choice bit
of scenery. As you descend you feel that the day upon the mountain has
been a day of vision and of beauty.

[Illustration]

Bear Creek

Over the second range of hills that shut in San Francisco Bay on the
east is a delightful little trout brook known as Bear Creek. With my
camera, a frugal lunch, and an assortment of trout flies carefully
stowed away in my knapsack, I started in quest of this little stream
that follows the windings of the canon.

If bears had ever inhabited this locality, and posed as its
godfathers, they had long since disappeared, and many years had passed
since they had slaked their thirst with its sparkling waters. Only the
name remained to remind one of other days, and one name is as good as
another to a trout brook.

My object was not so much to tempt the speckled trout with gaudy fly
from quiet pool or swirling riffle, as to follow the windings of the
stream, and spy out the quiet nooks, where the sun comes filtering
through the trees, dappling the water; or resting in the shadows where
the thick foliage defies its penetrating rays, and spreads a somber
hue on mossy rock or bed of ferns. At one place, perhaps a rod from
the margin of the brook, was a sort of amphith