22 chapters
2 hour read
Selected Chapters
22 chapters
ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR
ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR
Sunset in the Golden Gate (Poem) Brook and Waterfall Mountain and Valley Cañon and Hillside Wild-cat Cañon Autumn Days (Poem) Around the Camp Fire Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills On the Beach Muir Woods San Francisco Bay (Poem) In Chinatown In a Glass-bottom Boat Fog on the Bay Meiggs' Wharf The Stake and Rider Fence (Poem) Moonlight Mount Tamalpais Bear Creek The Song of the Reel (Poem) The Old Road San Francisco Bay (Poem) In Chinatown In a Glass-bottom Boat Fog on the Bay Meiggs' Wharf Th
1 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Sunset in the Golden Gate
Sunset in the Golden Gate
When day is done there falls a solemn hush: The birds are silent in their humble nest. Then comes the Master Artist with his brush, And paints with brilliant touch the golden west. The blended colors sweep across the sky, And add a halo at the close of day. Their roseate hues far-reaching banners fly, And gild the restless waters of the bay. Mount Tamalpais stands in purple 'tire Against the background, Phoenixlike, ornate: Apollo drives his chariot of fire Between the portals of the Golden Gate
1 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Brook and Waterfall
Brook and Waterfall
California, the land of sunshine and roses, with its genial climate, its skies as blue as the far-famed skies of Venice, and its pure life-giving air, invites the lover of nature to take long tramps over hill and dale, mountain and valley, and to search out new trails in the rugged mountains. It is a common sight to see parties of men and women meet at the ferry building, dressed in khaki suits, with knapsacks strapped on their backs, waiting to take the boat across the bay to some of the numero
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Mountain and Valley
Mountain and Valley
It is hard for us to leave the falls with all their surrounding beauty, and with reluctance we take one last look at this delightful glen planted in the heart of the wilderness, and strike out on the upward trail. At a turn in the path, where it seems as if we were about to walk off into space, we get a glimpse through the trees of Mount Tamalpais. Towering above us with its seam-scarred sides, rent and torn by the storms of centuries, it rears its jagged dome amid the clouds. We can just make o
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Cañon and Hillside
Cañon and Hillside
Did you ever see the Berkeley hills in the early morning, just before the sun comes stealing over their rounded domes, or in the evening, just before it sinks beneath the waters of the bay, and casts its waning light over their rugged sides? There never was a more pleasing sight than their uneven profile sharply drawn against the grayish purple. Watch them as they gradually assume shape out of the decreasing shadows. The blotches of green and brown take form and grow into cañons and gullies, roc
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Wild-cat Cañon
Wild-cat Cañon
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 Cañon. 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 out of sight under the bushes, seldom taking wing, but depending on their sturdy little legs to take them out of harm's way. A cotton-tail, disturbed in his hiding, darts away, bounding from side
5 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Autumn Days
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,
1 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Around the Camp Fire
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
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills
Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills
Since the days when Izaak Walton wrote The Complete Angler, men have emulated his example, and gone forth with rod and reel to tempt the finny tribe from dashing mountain brook or quiet river. We, being his disciples, thought to follow his example, and spend the day in the Berkeley hills whipping the stream for the wary brook trout. April first is the open season for trout in California, but owing to the scarcity of rain we feared the water in the brook would be too low for good fishing. Provide
5 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
On the Beach
On the Beach
We stand in awe at the grandeur of the mountains, thrusting their snowcapped summits into the clouds, and it is indeed a glorious sight; but the ocean, with its ceaseless motion, its wonderful rising and falling of the tides, and its constant and mysterious moaning, is not to be outdone in sublimity, and offers a keen delight to the lover of nature. Its sands and waters are ever changing. Its rugged coast, with rocks scattered in wild profusion, is one of the most interesting spots in all the wo
5 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Muir Woods
Muir Woods
June, to me, is one of the most fascinating months in California—if any of them can be set apart and called more perfect than another—for June is a month of moods. If you are an Easterner you would abandon your proposed picnic party, upon rising in the morning, for fear of rain, and, being a tenderfoot, you would be justified, for the clouds—or, more properly speaking, the high fog—give every indication of a shower. But an old Californian would tell you to take no thought of appearances, and to
3 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
San Francisco Bay
San Francisco Bay
Where once the Indian's canoe roamed o'er the bay, With silent motion, sped by warrior's hand; The sea gulls wheel and turn in columns gray, And on the beach the miners' cabins stand; Now, white-sailed ships sail outward with the tide, The stately ocean liners lead the van; And iron warships anchor side by side, With sister ships from China and Japan. Italian fishing boats with lateen sails go by, To cast their lines outside the Golden Gate; And ferryboats their ceaseless traffic ply, From mole
1 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
IN CHINA TOWN
IN CHINA TOWN
If you are a tourist, making your first visit to San Francisco, you will inquire at once for Chinatown, the settlement of the Celestial Kingdom, dropped down, as it were, in the very heart of a big city; a locality where you are as far removed from anything American as if you were in Hongkong or Foochow. Chinatown is only about two blocks wide by eight blocks long; yet in this small area from ten to fifteen thousand Chinese live, and cling with all the tenacity of the race to their Oriental cust
5 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
In a Glass-bottom Boat
In a Glass-bottom Boat
About one hundred miles south of San Francisco lies the beautiful Monterey Bay. Here hundreds of fishing boats of all styles and sizes tug at their anchors, awaiting the turn of the tide to sail out and cast their lines for baracuta, yellowtail, and salmon, which abound in these waters to gladden the heart of the sturdy fisherman. One may forego the pleasure of fishing if so inclined, and take a sail in the glass-bottom boat, viewing through its transparent bottom the wonders of the mighty deep.
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Fog on the Bay
Fog on the Bay
One could hardly find a more perfect morning than this in early March. The sun was heralded over the hills in a blaze of glory; meadow larks strung like beads on a telegraph wire were calling their cheery notes, and robins were singing their overture to the morning sun. Boarding the Key Route train, I soon arrived at the Oakland mole, to find it crowded with a restless tide of humanity, waiting impatiently for the overdue boat. Each arriving train added to the congestion, until the building betw
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Meiggs' Wharf
Meiggs' Wharf
North from the ferry building, and near the foot of Powell Street, is one of the old landmarks of San Francisco, known as Meiggs' Wharf. In the early sixties an old saloon was located on the shore end of this wharf, and connected with it was a museum which contained many quaint curios from other lands, some of them of considerable value. The occupant of this saloon never allowed the place to be cleaned, and for years the spiders held undisputed possession, weaving their webs without fear of mole
3 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
The Stake and Rider Fence
The Stake and Rider Fence
I love to let my fancy go wandering where it will, To the happy days of boyhood, to the meadow and the hill; To the brooks and quiet places, to the woods that seemed immense, But they always linger fondly at the stake-and-rider fence. Here, cicadas sing their loudest, and the crickets draw the bow, And the 'hoppers and the locusts join the chorus, soft and low; And you hear the bees a humming like a fiddle with one string, While the air just seems to vibrate with a soothing kind of ring. There t
1 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Moonlight
Moonlight
The beautiful California days, with warm sunshine tempered by the cool winds from the bay, are not surpassed in any country under the sun. But if the days are perfect, the brilliant moonlight nights lose nothing by comparison. To tramp the hills and woods, or climb the rugged mountains by day, is a joy to the nature lover. But the same trip by moonlight has an interest and charm entirely its own, and mysteries of nature are revealed undreamed of at noonday. The wind, that has run riot during the
3 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Mount Tamalpais
Mount Tamalpais
There are mountains and mountains, each one with an individuality all its own. There are mountains whose lofty peaks are covered with perpetual snow, like a bridal robe adorned with jewels, with the rising sun kissing each separate fold into glowing splendor; mountains whose rugged summits rise far above the timber line, somber and imposing, with fleecy clouds floating round the rocky pinnacles like fine spun silver. Mount Tamalpais is not so lofty as Pike's Peak, or Mount Hood, but what it lose
3 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
Bear Creek
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 cañon. 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 w
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
The Song of the Reel
The Song of the Reel
Close by the edge of the lily pads, there's a flash and swirl of spray, And the line draws taut, and the rod dips low, and I sing as he speeds away; And I whir and click with the joy of life, as the line runs in and out, And I laugh with glee as I reel him in, the gamy and speckled trout. And again the silken line is cast, and the fly like a feather glides, Close to the rock where the water's deep, and the wary black bass hides. There's a strike and a run as the game is hooked, and his rush with
2 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter
The Old Road
The Old Road
There is an old road that I love to follow. If one may judge by appearances, it is but slightly used by travelers, for it seems to lead nowhere, and is quite content in its wanderings, winding through cañons, over hills, and down valleys. I am told by one who ought to know—for he is an old resident—that if you follow its tortuous course far enough, it will lead you to a town called Walnut Creek, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion, as I have never found a town or hamlet along its
4 minute read
Read Chapter
Read Chapter