the ground, shutting out my view of anything beyond the pepper and lemon trees in front, whose branches touched the porch. I grew restless and finally sallied forth in rubber cloak and overshoes.

From the invisible edge of the lake the white crane uttered at intervals his hoarse cry. I walked through the grove, whose solemn repose was disturbed by the constant dripping from the leaves. I paused before a fallen oak, which stretched its great length on the ground a few rods from its living brothers. The family relate an amusing incident concerning this tree. It seems Jack and his brother had long discussed the advisability of chopping it down, because it stood so far away from the rest. Jack, who was on the affirmative side, finally made the playful offer of four bits to his brother if he would allow him to fell it; but the brother insisted that such a grand tree must not be touched, no matter if the symmetry of the grove suffered thereby. That very night, without a sign of warning, the stately monarch fell to the earth with a crash that shook the household awake at midnight, and sent them frightened from their beds. Of course Jack won his point, and his brother will not soon hear the last of the four bits he lost.

It is a curious fact concerning these California oaks that often in the dry heat of the long summer their fibre becomes brittle, and frequently when not a breath of air is stirring one of their huge arms will part from the trunk and fall to the ground. There have been instances of death occasioned by this peculiarity, and a Spaniard knows better than to camp under an oak.

Leaving the grove, I ascended the slippery path that led to my favorite cliff. I wished to look out on the world beyond; and lo! I found I could see nothing. To my very feet the insidious mist had rolled its noiseless waves, and not even the shadowy outlines of the world were longer visible. The few feet of earth on which I stood alone, seemed the entire universe.

Everything beyond was dissolved in the vaporous sea of fog. I marveled that the workings of nature went on the same under this impenetrable veil. Returning home 1 almost ran against a cow, who stared stupidly a moment in half fright, and then shambled off into the brush.

By Wednesday it had cleared off cold and frosty, but with a dazzling sun overhead. Mr. Healy sent word by a man hunting for lost stock, that the train would. not receive passengers for several weeks yet; so I resolved to take the stage from Buckhorn station at seven o'clock the next morning. To do this I must remain there over night, or get up at an uncomfortably early hour in the morning. early hour in the morning. I preferred the

first alternative, and consequently bade farewell to Lake Glen on Wednesday afternoon. I walked down the mountain, on ahead of the carriage, enjoying every foot of the way through this beautiful cañon. It was not until we reached Martin's that I consented to ride.

I was pleasantly surprised to find such. excellent accommodations at the station. Mrs. Walton's roomy cottage was scrupulously clean, her beds and table above criticism, and her two children pretty and well bred. I noticed here what I had frequently observed among these people, that everyone drank strong coffee, even to the little children scarcely out of babyhood. Their faith in its beneficial effects is equal to that of the son of Mahomet, who declares that, "God has deprived fools of coffee, who with invincible obstinacy condemn it as injurious."

Fortunately there were but two passengers besides myself in the stage. These were kindly gentlemen who divided with me their robes, the morning being bitterly cold, and were otherwise solicitous of my comfort during the entire way. There is no time that one appreciates consideration more than when traveling. A number of carpenters were already at work on the bridge

crossing Hopper Creek, and we met a crowd of Chinamen carrying their picks and shovels. Within two miles of the Camulos we passed the Piru River- a furious stream in winter-across which the company had just completed a fine Howe Truss bridge-two spans of one hundred and sixty-nine feet each.

The Camulos ranch originally contained seven hundred acres, but later on twentytwo hundred acres more were added. For many years it was the one point of interest throughout the upper Santa Clara valley. Its orchard and vineyard at that time furnished the only fruit procurable from San Buenaventura to San Fernando. It has a garden spot around an ojo de agua (marshy spring) on which they raise unusually fine vegetables. On the high points of the Tapo Mountains back of the Camulos can still be seen the old Mission crosses placed there by Juan Crespi and Portola when they and their companions made their overland march northward, following the Rio de Santa Clara down to the sea-coast and thence on to San Francisco.

Ten miles beyond the Camulos we crossed the Castac River, where there is another large bridge, which looks powerful enough to stand even the fearful torrents that are said to rush down the river's bed from the chain of magnificent peaks bearing the same name.

For some miles back from here there were few indications of cultivation, and we wondered where the profits accrued to the enterprising settler who had built a solitary shanty by the road, its dimensions not exceeding twelve by twelve feet, and nailed. a strip of board to the side on which was printed in drunken characters the word "SALON," the last letter clinging frantically to the utmost edge of the wood. Either the proprietor altered the orthography of the word to fit the board, or gave precedence to the French mode of spelling. We were determined not to suspect him of igno

rance if we could cover the defect with any conceivable mantle of charity.

A station is to be built near here for the benefit of Newhall's lower ranch, which joins the Camulos. The entire ranch-upper and lower-belonging to the late H. M. Newhall, contains about 39,000 acres, and judging from the immense fields of thick stubble we saw, I should think the last year's crop of grain had been a fine one.

Our next river is called the San Francisquito after the mountains that it drains. The bridge crossing this creek is a heavy Strain Beam, three spans of eighty feet each.

The

Near the town of Newhall, in Pico Cañon, are located the well-known oil wells. oil is piped from there down through the Santa Clara valley to Ventura, and from this place shipped to San Francisco. The mountains all through this section, from San Fernando to Santa Barbara, abound in oil; and if capital and labor were as cheap in California as they are in New York or Europe, petroleum would be a source of great wealth to the country. From some of these natural oil springs it flows in a black viscid stream like tar. From others the oil is comparatively pure and colorless. I have known people who have used it in their lamps without any preparation whatever. The mountain streams throughout these oil districts are unfit for use, the water being covered with the shining liquid.

The new railroad branches from the Southern Pacific Railroad about two miles and a half north of Newhall, and crosses the Santa Clara River this side of the junction on a Howe Truss bridge nearly two hundred feet in length. The country around Newhall has many live oaks, planted by nature in picturesque groups on the hilly slopes. Their wide spreading branches are often hung with gray Spanish moss, which adds greatly to their reverend appearance. The town has a beautiful site in the very heart of the mountains, making

whole company.

66

This sentiment found favor with the All agreed that they had never heard o' nothin' ridic'louser," and Nixon was vehemently called on to carry his brilliant idea into execution. Feeling that his position as a popular hero entailed certain responsibilities, he agreed to perform the valiant feat without the additional incentive of a bet. Accordingly, a final drink was taken by each of the loungers at the bar, and then they all left the house, walked hilariously up the main street of the frontier settlement, and struck into a beaten path over the prairie.

No

About two miles away on the open prairie, was a place where in summer, the blue smoke of many fires used to rise above the skin tepees of a large Indian town. tepees were ever seen there now; but, all the year round, a cluster of forlorn wooden shanties harbored the small remnant of a once powerful sub-tribe.

The dozen or more of men in this little band had lost nearly all such savage virtues as their forefathers possessed, and had acquired nothing but the vices of civilized society. Their whole time was devoted to drinking, gambling, and bloody brawls. The women did all the work, and when their husbands reached the dangerous stage of drunkenness, they hid the guns and knives and hatchets, and hurried the children away out of their sight. Any of them would submit without a murmur to such abuse as her lord and master might see fit to inflict on her; but let him dare to lift his hand against her children, and no tiger could. show a fiercer front. An Indian mother's love for her children has in it the spirit of adoration, and these poor creatures had kept that spirit all unchanged.

When the party of white men came within sight of the Indian huts, they left the path and stationed themselves some distance from

it, sitting or lying down among the tall prairie grass. Several Indian boys and girls passed, and at last a woman appeared, carrying a little child in her arms. The child

had long since been emancipated from the wrappings of bark that enfold Indian babies, but the mother still carried it about, with that powerful instinct of maternity which makes Indian women keep up the practice until their children are two, three, or even four years old. The white men did not escape her keen vision, but she merely glanced at them in passing. She had often seen such groups, reposing around a blanket spread on the ground, and beguiling the time by means of greasy playing-cards, with an occasional murder or two for the sake of variety.

The path the woman was following crossed a large, imbedded rock, the center of its rounded top rising a little above the surrounding grass. As she reached the top of this rock her whole figure was outlined against the bright horizon.

Then came the sharp crack of a revolvershot, instantly followed by a wild, piercing scream. The baby's eyes had suddenly turned towards its mother's face, and drops of blood were falling from its left temple. It did not struggle, or make any sound; but in a few moments its eyes closed and its head sank down on the woman's arm, and she was holding a corpse.

She sat down on the rock, and the white men came around her, laughing and talking boisterously; but she did not raise her eyes. from the dead child's face, and when they had gone away she still sat in the same place, seeming hardly alive.

As Nixon and his admiring friends were returning jovially across the prairie, they met the only man in the neighborhood with whom they were on those terms of distant politeness which required the use of the title "Stranger." Jasper Hernshaw was an elderly man, a little below the middle height, and slightly built, but his figure was erect