the edge of the now overflowed marsh. To our left is picturesque San Antonio-geographically named, since railroad eras, East Oakland-backed by the Coast Range hills, which rise above it, showing clear against the sky. Astern of us we see Oakland, the prettiest town of California, now half hidden by the trees. My companion, with experience of New England coast scenery, tells me it looks like some of the Connecticut towns, with its white houses and clustering trees. We see the taller buildings and spires of churches above the foliage, the vessels' masts bordering the city front, a railroad train crossing the bridge, the steamers and sailing craft laid up in the quiet haven, the white sails of the pleasure boats moving hither and thither, the mass of foliage of the evergreen California oak, and back of all the rising hills, carpeted with living green, and studded here and there with home-like dwellings and plantations of the ever-present blue gum-the whole making, on this lovely day, a most agreeable picture as it basks in the sunshine.

We come about and "square away" down though the group of bay steamers and schooners laid up in ordinary, and come upon another group of arctic shipping. Here are the Alaska Commercial Company's steamers St. Paul and Alexander, schooners Ounalaska, Leon, Matthew Turner, and St. George, and steam brig Dora; all of which trade north in summer months, but which pass their winter days each year in these sequestered waters, and now lie lazily at their undisturbed moorings. We move quickly past the lumber wharves at Brooklyn, near the long railroad train, where the waiting passengers stare at us out of the windows; down along the cove, where the wreckers are breaking up the old barges and steamer; past the quiet fishermen in their boats at the dismantled and rotting wharf; and then we meet, racing down before the wind, half a dozen craft with which to try our speed. We have the satisfaction, with the smallest boat, of beating them all to windward back to the boat-houses, by means of our large sail and our knowledge of the locality, as

sisted by vigorous paddling to windward in tacking, with our steering oar, a maneuver evidently not understood by our competitors. We leave them all, lower our sail, "shoot the bridges" under the draws, set the sail again, and pass on in the freshening breeze, down the creek toward the rock trainingwalls which extend into the bay and inclose a river-like body of water a couple of miles long. The spray is flying by this time. Not a cloud in the sky, however. One of us holds the sheet and the other the steering oar, and only our heads are above the rail. Surely, this has been Ruskin's style of sailing: smooth water, and easy, gliding motion near sedgy banks, everything quiet and still, the effect being only heightened by the occasional whirr of wings of the startled wild fowl so persistently hunted in the neighboring marshes. Here are more rows of steamers, yachts, and sailing craft, the whip-like pennant of one indicating a Government vessel, and we recognize the little revenue cutter Corwin, which unraveled the mystery of Wrangel Land, and came near leaving her bones among the icy barriers of the north.

Suddenly the wind drops. Though apparently as steady as a summer nor'west breeze, this puffy and unsettled northerly air has proven unreliable. It is all gone now, and we lie in a flat calm. Distant voices sound near at hand, coming over the water clear and distinct. The tide is ebbing, and we drift baywards in company with a rustylooking trading schooner, the mainsail of which is such a marvel of patchwork of varying shades one cannot tell which was the original cloth that formed the basis for the whole. Coming close to us is the ferry steamer Bay City, with a crowd of San Francisco excursionists bound to Alameda, and they watch our little boat as it pitches madly on the steamer's swell, apparently wondering at our unconcern as we lie stretched out in careless attitudes and return their gaze.

The momentary turbulence intensifies the calm. The skipper of our companion scow has left his wheel, and is stretched with professional nonchalance on the narrow rail,

leaning on his elbow. The smoke from his galley fire curls lazily upward without deflection, and is the only moving feature in the view.

The day is remarkably clear. We look to the north-west and see the hills which back the Napa valley, and are reminded thereby of vines and fig-trees and hot springs and dust we have met in that vicinity. We see also old Mount Tamalpais, "with his head in the clouds and his feet in the sea," the guardian of the bay of San Francisco, looming to-day purple in the pure atmosphere. In the foreground is musically named and prosaically called Goat, or Yerba Buena, Island, where we can see in the cove under the hill the lighthouse department wharf, with the painted buoys ready for service; and above, the lighthouse and keeper's dwelling with the fog-whistle, that tells the sleepy Oaklander of intangible obstructions in his daily path.

Immediately before us lies the broad, flat expanse of San Francisco bay, for once calm, quiet, and at rest, without even a disturbing ripple on its surface. We can see Lime and Fort Point, and, looking westward through the Golden Gate, discern quite plainly on Point Bonita, more than twelve miles away, the white column that we know is the lighthouse, which becomes a brilliant gem at night. In our line of vision, as we look out on the broad Pacific, are great ships laden deep with wheat, ready to start for foreign lands; coasters drifting seaward; bay craft, with jibs down waiting for the breeze; and busy ferry steamers, leaving trails of sooty vapor above and fleecy foam below, as they speed on with the mass of humanity on pleasure bent.

Before us lies the great city with its fringe of masts along the edge, and behind this a gradually rising and spreading mass of roof and chimney, spire and tower, with only a few of the more prominent buildings distinguishable by their size. Back of all and

looking down on all is the dome of Lone Mountain (the funereal marble making a white spot on the landscape), and surmounting it, the apex of the picture, the great cross, San Francisco's memento mori, is cut sharply against the background of blue sky. Southward, the eye glances along past the round-topped San Bruno hills, over the green rolling land which skirts the bay, and suddenly the water view is cut off by Alameda's oaks. But over them in the dim distance are the redwoods of the Santa Cruz Mountains, along which the writer not long since followed the tumbling streams, with rod in hand, in search of the rainbow trout which there abound.

Our wandering thoughts are centered by seeing our friend the skipper roll lazily to his wheel, and, gripping the spokes, swing his ponderous, ill-shapen rudder "hard over," as if expectant of coming wind. We look up, and there in the westward a darkening line on the water manifests itself, approaching us, setting into motion as it comes the craft awaiting its advent, and putting life into the picture. Gradually the placid waters dimple as with merriment near us, the smoky jib of the schooner fills away, a flutter of our sail warns us the breeze has come down, and there the dark line speeds away ahead, as if enticing us to a race. Our boat heels to the breeze as we "up helm," and the motion and action remind us of a strict injunction as to the hour of return: the household knowing from oftrepeated experience that sailing is a sort of lotus flower, causing forgetfulness of dinners and other necessities; and to-day the conventional turkey awaits us. As we near the boat-house, racing down with the first of the breeze, we see several of the rowers in swimming suits plunging overboard from the floats, and sporting about in the water. Sail on its hooks, sculls in the rack, and boat hauled up and set on its cradle finish our Christmas sail.

Charles G. Yale.

THREE travelers—a young man and two girls-sat idly upon a narrow ledge that faced a slender waterfall and encircled the deep pool into which the cataract fell. Two of them were apparently tired, and satisfied to enjoy quietly the sight and sound of the waterfall, which they had reached after a fatiguing walk, or scramble rather, over a steep and narrow trail; while the third, the taller of the two girls, wandered restlessly about the narrow space of level granite, or ventured now and then upon higher rocks overhanging dangerous rifts and chasms, from the top of which she could get the waterfall or the clear, deep pool in some new point of view. She seemed a trifle too indifferent to the anxiety with which the others appeared to watch her movements, while they kept up the remonstrances usual in such cases.

"What possible interest can you find in that dreadful dangerous place, Prudence?" the elder young lady at length objected in a querulous tone. "Come, do sit down here; we should like to enjoy ourselves. O, Cousin Lawrence, do bring her down," she appealed with a nervous laugh to the young

man.

"Look out for your long dress, cousin," said he, as he started up to help her down from a tilting bowlder on which she was balancing herself.

"Here I come, then, since you insist upon it. But there is positively no room for me here; now I must jump over to the other side"; and as she said this she bounded with a laugh to another rocky perch.

"Really, Prue, don't you think you are rather old to be so antic ?" said her sister.

"I don't know; it seems to come natural; does it depend on age?"

There was a suggestion of boyishness about her, in some indefinable way; either it was in her figure or her freedom of move ment, or perhaps it was a quantity of short,

curling hair and a riding-hat; but it was very graceful and attractive.

"Must I rise from my heathery couch, Fanny, and take care of your rash sister?" said the young man, leaning on his elbow, and pretending to sympathize with her anxiety.

"Don't think of such a thing," said Prudence; "Fanny has a book of poetry about her somewhere; you get it out and enjoy yourselves. I am not going into danger; I never went into any danger in my life; I want to see what is beyond this waterfall.” "But you are not exactly equipped for that. Suppose we consider this the headwaters and limit of exploration," replied he, as he rose, and with a pretense of authority helped her down to the platform again.

Prudence seated herself at Fanny's feet, and then pulling off her loose riding-glove, played with the water of the pool. It was one of those lovely natural fountains that streams everywhere scoop for themselves out of the granite, as they crowd through mountain clefts, and precipitate themselves from the steep side of rocky gorges. The high banks of the now narrowed cañon rose all about, clothed with trees and shrubs, and ended in the rocky precipice that rose over the basin, and seemed to forbid all further passage. The face of this steep, for some distance above the water's edge, was clothed with long green fronds of maiden-hair fern, which flourished under the spray of the waterfall, and dipped their tips in the edge of the water. The fern was completely out of reach, as the tempting prettiness of nature so often is, especially where summer pleasure-seekers are wont to ramble —a fact that is best explained by the theory that the first discoverers of the picturesque spots carry off all the greenery and blossoms within reach, root and branch, and their successors continue the spoliation until columbines seem to swing only on the edges