imitation of the flamingo and the fly-up-the-creek, and running before the wind from the bathine-house to the water, is not a success,—I say it with sincere pain,—not even a qualified success, nothing like one, in fact. Beloved of my heart, good-by! May you be happy sporting with the sea and the crabs and the little fishes and the possible sharks and the probable blood-suckers and the inevitable sand-flies, in your flamingo and fly-up-the-creek costume; but as for me, give me solitude and the woods, or give me death!
What glorious places for picnicking, and what romantic roads and bridle-paths, abound in the vicinity of Santa Cruz! With youth and some money and pleasant company, what a jolly life one could lead here! Ten miles to the northwest of the town, up in the foot-hills, there is what was long supposed to be the ruin of a mighty temple, like unto those of Egypt or Elephanta. There are two rows of columns forty feet apart, with four feet space between the columns, and looking very like the work of human hands,—very like indeed. They are indeed the ruins of a temple,—the temple of Nature, and the columns are simply those which
"The wizard Time
Hath raised to count his ages by."
There is a cave, three hundred feet in length, some three miles from the town, and four miles farther up in the hills a mammoth-tree grove, wonderful to look upon by one who has not stood among the giants of Calaveras and Mariposa. They are of the
