Poison oak or poison ivy (_Rhus diversiloba_), both as a bush and a
scrambler up trees and rocks, is common throughout the foothill region
up to a height of at least three thousand feet above the sea. It is
somewhat troublesome to most travelers, inflaming the skin and eyes, but
blends harmoniously with its companion plants, and many a charming
flower leans confidingly upon it for protection and shade. I have
oftentimes found the curious twining lily (_Stropholirion Californicum_)
climbing its branches, showing no fear but rather congenial
companionship. Sheep eat it without apparent ill effects; so do horses
to some extent, though not fond of it, and to many persons it is
harmless. Like most other things not apparently useful to man, it has
few friends, and the blind question, "Why was it made?" goes on and on
with never a guess that first of all it might have been made for
itself.

Brown's Flat is a shallow fertile valley on the top of the divide
between the North Fork of the Merced and Bull Creek, commanding
magnificent views in every direction. Here the adventurous pioneer David
Brown made his headquarters for many years, dividing his time between
gold-hunting and bear-hunting. Where could lonely hunter find a better
solitude? Game in the woods, gold in the rocks, health and exhilaration
in the air, while the colors and cloud furniture of the sky are ever
inspiring through all sorts of weather. Though sternly practical, like
most pioneers, old David seems to have been uncommonly fond of scenery.
Mr. Delaney, who knew him well, tells me that he dearly loved to climb
to the summit of a commanding ridge to gaze abroad over the forest to
the snow-clad peaks and sources of the rivers, and over the foreground
valleys and gulches to note where miners were at work or claims were
abandoned, judging by smoke from cabins and camp-fires, the sounds of
axes, etc.; and when a rifle-shot was heard, to guess who was the
hunter, whether Indian or some poacher on his wide domain. His dog Sandy
accompanied him everywhere, and well the little hairy mountaineer knew
and loved his master and his master's aims. In deer-hunting he had but
little to do, trotting behind his master as he slowly made his way
through the wood, careful not to step heavily on dry twigs, scanning
open spots in the chaparral, where the game loves to feed in the early
morning and towards sunset; peering cautiously over ridges as new
outlooks were reached, and alon