September noon we crossed the summit of the grade at an elevation of 2200 feet, and dipping gently into a sheltered cuplike dell, we saw the toll-house, a low, rambling structure nestling under the overhanging evergreens. On its vineembowered veranda we met our good host, Daniel Patten, a pioneer of seventy springs. He led us into his office, which resembled a laboratory, being filled with mineral specimens, surveying and other instruments, and volumes of mining and meteorological data. We found him finishing a report to Professor MacAdie of the Weather Bureau, in which we saw these pithy words: "A heavy crop of hoppers hereabouts this month-temperature 85 degrees in the shade, and going up." We were indulging our scientific tastes in testing a liquid, qualitatively and quantitatively, when we were greeted by our genial hostess, Dan Patten's hale and hearty helpmeet. She regaled her interested listeners with the history of Silverado, the coming and going of the Stevensons, whom she well and pleasantly remembered.

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Her father, a well known pioneer named Lawley, had built the toll-road Mt. St. Helena, in 1867, and has ever since realized the profits of a miniature mint from the natural monopoly of this pass through the rugged Napa mountains. In 1880 he had leased the toll-house to the Corwens, who entertained the Steven

His daughter graphically related how the toll-house burned to the ground three years later, and showed us how it was rebuilt partially with lumber from the demolished home of the Hansons.

As we lounged on the wide veranda, we fancied we could see the grape clusters ripen in the mellowing California sunshine. A pleasant stillness hushed the mid-day air until a far rumbling of wheels rose upwards from the wilderness of Lake County, and suddenly two stage coaches, laden with passengers and baggage, drew up at the office. The passengers, returning from the highland lakes and springs, were clad in dusters and presented the same picturesque features that caught the eye of Stevenson in his time, as he described how "the stages swoop upon the toll-house with a roar and in a cloud of dust." Every detail seemed completely reproduced for our

benefit, from "the blue-clad Chinabov." a serene Celestial, who looked blandly down upon us from the hurricane deck of the coach, to "the San Francisco magnate, the mystery in the dust-coat."

In the first coolness of the afternoon, pioneer Patten led us up the steep trail back of the toll-house, once worn smooth by the feet of thirsty miners," bound for the bar, over which the genial Mr. Hoddy presided during the boom days of Silverado. Our path threaded its leafy way through monster madrones and fragrant fir-trees, at whose mossy feet gurgled a stream of mine water diverted down a rusty trough. This flumed brooklet trickled from the barred mouth of a new tunnel, and hard by stood a tollhouse, hidden in the dense foliage of laurel, and the water-haunting rhododen

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dron. This we eagerly explored, explored, and found an array of rusty picks, drills and nose-blunted shovels lying about in picturesque disorder, while the floor glistened with quartz samples from the mine. Pleasantly discoursing on his life-long mining hobby, the old pioneer led steadily upwards until our trail joined an old road, dusty and red with mineralized float that halted at "a triangular platform," and there we saw Silverado. We gazed upon "a canyon, woody below, red, rocky and naked overhead,” and ever as we varied our viewpoint, our eyes confirmed the accurate details of Stevenson's word-sketches, especially when, in his words, "we looked forth upon a great realm of air, and down upon tree-tops and hill-tops, and far and near on wild and varied country.”

Gone was the house of the Silverado squatters. This we expected, but we were glad to see even a pile of wreckage, which Mr. Patten assured us was the ruins of the old assay office. "And here was the front door," he cried, as he pulled forcibly at a mass of bleached boards, bearing a pair of rusted hinges. This memento had thus far escaped the eyes of relie hunters and wreckers. We paused on the brink of a platform of waste rock from the mine, and recalled how he described it as "a rampart built by a primitive people." Below us, to the eastward, the canyon dropped steeply downward to the tree-hidden toll-house. Spiry pines and firs outlined a graceful fore

ground, while rugged range on range of blue mountains rose and fell toward the horizon.

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We prospected in the neighborhood of the mine for picturesque views, and found them in bewitching plenty. every angle a vista of pines and rocky contours hiding mysterious hollows tempted the shutter of the camera to click of its own accord. We noted several tunnels and a caved-in shaft that indicated that much labor and its coined product had been expended in searching for the elusive pay-streak.

We also saw the bleached skeleton of "a rusty, iron chute on wooden legs," that "came flying like a monstrous gargoyle across the parapet." Climbing up a high angled incline, we came to a yawning, open cut, described as leading up into the superincumbent shoulder of the hill." For a hundred feet and more the hanging wall rose to a jagged pinnacle, while below it opened a black cavity from which the outcropping ledge had been extracted. Twenty-five years had indeed altered the aspect of the mine but little, for now, (6 as then, we could see the strata propped apart by solid wooden wedges." We picked about in crannies and crevices looking for specimens; then turning toward the deluge of sunshine beating upon the glistening quartz-mirrors of the rocks, we saw a pine, halfundermined, precariously nodding on the verge." This great sentinel guarding the entrance of the mine was by far the most striking picture we beheld.

A shadow flitted over the rocks, and looking upwards we saw a broad-winged hawk alight in a tree-top; then, as he perceived the intruders in his airy domain, he continued his majestic flight. We also longed to "mount upon wings, like eagles," as we climbed "the steep and toilsome path" that leads through clothes-shredding chaparral shielding the shoulder of St. Helena. One hour from Silverado brought us out upon the fourpeaked summit, 4,343 feet above the distant glimmering ocean. A smoky September haze obscured the far-reaching outlook, for which this mountain is noted. When the sky has been cleansed of cobwebs and the yellowness has been washed from the hills, the snowy Sierras are visible from Mount Shasta to Whitney, a dis

tance such as one might survey from some Adirondack peak, were he able to look from Boston to Buffalo, or Montreal to New York.

Racing with the sinking sun, we bounded backward over the sterile, undulating crests, and plunging down the sharp shoulder of the mountain, reached the toll-house in time to dine with the amiable proprietress, who discoursed entertainingly of the Stevensons.

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"Mr. Stevenson," she said, rally believed to be a consumptive. He was so frail, yet his manner was SO cheery and hopeful that he fascinated every one with his kindliness. The Hansons moved from Silverado long ago, and now reside near Maxwell, Colusa County. Irvine Loveland drifted to the north from lumber camp to mining camp; a ne'er-dowell at best."

"Who was that juvenile offender whom Stevenson dubbed 'that demon boy?" I asked.

"He has turned out well," she replied. "He is a sober, hard-working man of middle age now. He, too, was a Hanson. Mr. Hoddy died long ago, and Jennings, the engineer, passed in his checks as a Pasadena millionaire."

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At length, lantern-led, we lugged our blankets up through the stilly air to the site of Stevenson's honevmoon home. gentle night breeze blew down the canyon, while above the tree-tops the stars twinkled. The Milky Way blazed its lucent trail across the heavens on just such a starry night as Stevenson would have loved to be abroad on this romantic mountain side. Under a flourishing young balsam fir we spread our blankets upon a couch of its resinous needles. blended with the pungent perfume of California laurel leaves. Soon the night breeze ceased its whisperings, and the rival orchestras of queer little wood-fol's tuned up as they began their night-long serenades. The cheerful monotones crickets chorded with the weird lilt of hylas. No sound of prowling animals disturbed our slumbers, though at times we wakened to marvel at the brightness of Venus, whose intensity made it seem like a new satellite of our swirling sphere. Never did a night out of doors pass so swiftly; so full it was of delicious fragrances and subtle influences haunting

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this romantic canyon retreat of Stevenson.

At length, a faint glow stole over the eastern sky. The shadowy ranges to the eastward grew more distinct, while the woody gorge assumed details of rocks and branching trees. Then, like a great, red lamp-shade the sun shot above a craggy horizon, and the ravine reveled in ruddy waves of light. In a few moments ! clambered to the crest of a horn of rock, a favorite aerie of Stevenson, whither he loved to climb to overlook the sea-fogs. A thousand feet below me long tentacles of fog felt their way up dark-blue canyons. The same pinv crest that caught his eye floated like an isle fortunatu above the vaporous flood. The faint, far sound of cow-bells filtered upward from the flat once filled with hustling Silverado town.

As we descended the old mine road, we emerged from the still somnolent mystery of the ancient forest and crossed a picturesque little mountain flat. Here nce flourished the prosperous mining. camp of Silverado, where, a little late", Rufe Hanson and that hunter's family squatted in the old hotel. In its place we saw several acres of well-cultured vines and peach-trees, bespeaking the pas

toral life that has supplanted the strenucus mining era. The old village street is now a thoroughfare for cattle whose cloven hoofs have carved deep trenches in the reddish soil. A lonely cabin, buil for the most part from Silverado lumher, stands in the shelter of magnificent madrone trees. A graceful grape arbor leads to the door of the Peterson family, successors to the Hansons. Well-read are these people, and they seem to know "The Silverado Squatters" by heart. They emphatically impress upon the minds of visitors that they are not the Hansons of dubious memory of a quarter of a century ago.

The tourist of literary proclivities who journeys to California may visit the sunland home of Ramona, or the haunts of the heroes of Bret Harte; but no trip to California is complete until a pilgrimage is made to Silverado. On this high slope of St. Helena he will find much of romantic interest as he follows the paths hallowed by the memory of Stevenson's happiest summer. One who camps at night in this canyon is certain to be greatly enriched by the experience of, as Stevenson says, Listening to the silence there is among the hills."

AOR a number of years, the widow

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of Robert Louis Stevenson has resided in her picturesque home on the northwest corner of Hyde and Lombard streets, San Francisco. It is a twostory, composite frame structure connecting with the residence of her son, Lloyd Osbourne, the well-known collaborator with her late husband, and the author of many delightful stories in the current magazines, some of which are regarded as clas

sics. His doorway opens upon the sunny side of Lombard street, while the entrance to his mother's home overlooks the broad expanse of the blue bay of San Francisco a glorious vista in the morning sunshine. The joint residence is connected with a patio in which a beautiful garden flourishes; above its walls trees look over upon Hyde street hill, descending abruptly to the bay shore, three hundred feet below. The front walls of the