p into small farms, and these are tended, usually, by the members
of the family. The work is limited and light. After the trees are
planted, nature, pretty much, does all the rest. When the fruit is ripe
is the time of most applied and constant labor. Then, under the shadows
of the live-oaks, the whole family attend to the curing of the fruit,
which has to be dipped in lye and dried in the open air. It is a pretty
and pastoral occupation; and with a horse, and a cow, and some poultry,
an easy and comfortable life can be had. It lacks, however, the robust
discipline of legitimate farming, with its varied enterprises, and
constant changes of crops, of times and seasons. It is a lotos kind of
existence, and when I heard of the meeting of reading circles, and of
whist clubs, in which regular accounts of rubbers were kept, all
through the winter, I knew that leisure was ample and life easy.

While in Gilroy I saw the little Episcopal church, and enjoyed the
happy pride of the old English gentleman, who for more than thirty
years, had been senior warden, and had seen Breck and the other
California pioneers who labored arduously for the Church in early days.
I understood that Breck had planted the two eucalyptus trees which
guarded the entrance porch of the little building, trees which have now
grown up to be quite large and imposing.

Leaving Gilroy, I awaited our Santa Cruz party at a junction somewhere,
and joined them for our run to the Hotel del Monte, and Monterey.

As in all Santa Clara Valley, our way was through fruits, and flowers,
and rich vegetation, until at last, we were once more at anchor, in the
grounds of the Hotel del Monte.

After tea we wandered out in the twilight through the umbrageous woods,
and found that we were separated from the ocean only by a fringe of
trees and shrubs, and some sand dunes, over which we had an exciting
climb.

The lonely walk, with the roar of the breakers in our ears, and their
white foam breaking upon the beach, was a charming close for our day,
whether we had seen the solemnity of the giant sequoia, or the humbler
conditions of rural life on a ranch.

Stunted cedars in contorted shapes, battered and twisted by storms,
began to look more weird in the gathering gloom, but before the light
had quite faded out, we had filled our hands with bunches of a pale
pink flower, like a morning-glory, with which the sands were dotted.
The little fragile flower clung tenaciously to the