No one ever had a larger stock in trade, in the shape of good resolutions, than myself. I allow nobody to beat me in that line, whatever may be my short-comings in other matters. After a glorious night's sleep I awoke with the warm sunlight pouring in at my window, and the sweet song of wild birds falling on my ears. As I have said, I had come into this inexpressibly lovely and secluded valley to hunt wild game, and fish for mountain trout, and I arose with the firmest resolution to swallow a hasty and early breakfast, saddle up, and be off into the hills without the loss of a moment's time. The matter of breakfast was soon disposed of, and I went out into the open air and the sunshine. Great
spreading buckeyes and California laurels, the fragrant bay, stood in groups all around the house; and between two gnarled tree trunks, in the fragrant shade, I saw a hammock swinging temptingly. There was a world of romance and dreamy remembrances of other days and tropic climes in the sight, and—shall I say it?—the cherished daughter of the house, she of the soft rippling hair, and great brown eyes, sat near the hammock, in the shade, with an open book before her. To see how it would seem to swing in a hammock in the shade once more, I stretched myself therein, and, to complete the reproduction of my dream of the tropics, drew out a bunch of fragrant cigarritas,—genuine Havanas, from the factory of "the Widow of Garcia,"—rolled one, lighted it, and engaged in conversation with my fair young friend. I found her highly educated, refined, accomplished, a glorious conversationalist, entertaining, and companionable. The smoke of that cigarrita, and another, and another, and another, went curling up in blue transparent wreaths, and floated lazily away. The sunlight filtered through the leaves in rippling streams of golden glory, and the soft autumn breeze fanned my cheek and played caressingly with the locks upon my forehead, grey and harsh no more, but curly and raven-hued again, "in my mind's eye, Horatio." The view down the valley, between hills on one side clad in deepest green, on the other in brightest gold, to the great Canada del Raymundo and the high, forest-crowned mountains of Santa Clara, enveloped in, and glorified by the soft blue haze of the September morning,
A DREAM OF THE TROPICS
was poetry itself; and, beggar that I am, I swung in that hammock, smoked the fragrant cigarritas, and talked of books and poetry and travel in foreign lands, with that fair daughter of the Golden Land, until four o'clock in the afternoon.
I ought to say that I am ashamed of myself; but I am not. I glory in my shame! I would do it again, and think none the less of myself and my fellow-man—and woman—for so doing. And so would you, my reader, or you are no friend of mine,—a blockhead, an idiot, a confirmed misanthrope, or something worse. If you do not sympathize with me in this feeling, drop the book right here, and never take it up again; you and I will not do to travel together.
All earthly things end sometime and somewhere, and my siesta followed the rule. At four o'clock I saddled up old Don Benito, who had been neighing and manifesting his impatience to be off for hours, and, with Linden, rode up a long, winding pathway in the cañon, through the thick, overhanging forest of laurel, madrono, live-oak, tea-oak ceonotus, buckeye, and wild cherry, to the summit of the high hill range, above the valley upon the west. Doves, and pretty, tufted California quail rose up and whirred away into the thickets as we rode along, and rabbits and hares ran before us in the pathway, affording us abundant opportunity for using our guns.
On the summit of the range was a fine wheat-field of two or three hundred acres, and there the birds fairly swarmed. We used our guns until the sport became such no longer, and then threw ourselves down upon the grass under a tree to admire the quiet beauty and subdued grandeur of the scene, and talk of old times and plans for the future. Eastward, miles away beyond the valley of San Andreas, the lower hill range and the wide marshlands, but seemingly at our very feet, lay the blue Bay of San Francisco, flecked here and there with the white sails of ships. Beyond this lay a bank of semi-transparent vapor, which had drifted in through the Golden Gate and over from the city of San Francisco, and grown coralline and roseate-hued with the warm rays of the setting sun. This vapor half concealed the shores of Alameda and Contra Costa, on the eastern side of the bay, and made the high hills of those counties appear to come down bold and precipitous to the very water's edge, the intervening valley, miles in width, having wholly disappeared. High above these hills, magnified and lifted up as it were, and made to look far higher than he really is, loomed, like a thunder-cloud against the deep blue sky, the dark head of Mount Diablo.
Looking westward, at our feet was a deep cañon, beyond which was another range of hills, or more properly mountains, the real coast range, shutting out the view of the sea. These mountains are covered with a dark, redwood forest at the summit, kept dripping wet by the mist from the Pacific which rolls up over them in an unceasing torrent, white as an Alpine avalanche, all day long. An effect is here produced of which I despair of being able to give anything like an adequate description. The white vapor came rushing over to the eastward towards us, with a current like that of a thousand Niagaras rolled into one, and the beholder expects every moment to see it come down the slope, cross over the intervening cañon, and overwhelm him; but stay as long as he may, for hours, days, months, or years, it comes never a rod nearer to him. As it meets the hot air ascending from the dry valleys, it is dissipated at a certain point and disappears. You behold a mighty avalanche, white and solid in appearance as Alpine snows, ever advancing to overwhelm you, but never reaching you. Two great eagles with snow-white heads circled around cañon and around over the dark canon below us, in which they had their nest. There was not a sound save that of our own voices to break the stillness of the evening, and, save what I have described, not a sign of life to mar the solitude of the scene. The high, rugged mountains of Santa Clara and Santa Cruz, robed in deep-green chemisal and crowned with feathery redwoods, bounded the view on the south, and made a fitting frame for the glorious picture before us. What wonder that we gazed noon the enchanting scene, fairly reveling in the feast of beauty and sublimity nature had spread before us with such a lavish hand, until the gathering shadows of night admonished us that it was time to remount our impatient steeds and descend once more to the valley!
The full, round moon was in the heavens, throwing her mellow light o'er all that fairy landscape, as we descended from the mountain height, and in fancy we were once more wandering in the mountains of Sonora, or in the savage deserts of Arizona, masters only of the good steeds beneath us, and trusting only to the mercy of God and the good weapons in our hands and at our saddle-bows for the safety of our lives.
After supper we sat beneath the trees around the hospitable casa of our friend, and rehearsed the adventures and scenes of old times with a relish the stranger to wild frontier life can never know. Harry Linden is my senior by some years, and in the ordinary course of nature and civilized life should have lost his early penchant for Robinson Crusoe-like adventure; but such is the fascination of border life that I believe that at this very hour he would exchange all the comforts of the most elegant home in San Francisco or New York, and the best spring mattress ever made, for a seat by the camp-fire in Apache land, and a blanket and the warm sand of the desert for a bed,—and I am just boy enough to do the same at a moment's notice, did opportunity offer and duty permit. Sitting here under the trees