devoid of business object, a quiet pleasure jaunt, a trip for rest, relaxation from care and toil, for recreation. When the lazy clays of summer come, you ask for your San Francisco friend the doctor, the lawyer, clergyman, or merchant, and the chances are that you will be told "he has gone on a paseár" to the Yosemite, to Lake Tahoe, to the springs, or to the mountains where the trout-streams abound.
The country of which I have been speaking is just the country for an enjoyable paseár, and many times, when incessant toil in a close, dark office, or the too bracing winds of San Francisco had worn me down, and made rest, recreation, and a change of air imperative, I have shouldered my gun, mounted my horse, and galloped away to these mountains, there to find refuge from care, anxiety, and exhausting labor, purer air, lighter spirits, a better appetite, and, in the end, perfect health again.
It was a bright September afternoon when I started on my last paseár out toward the Sierra Morena, mounted on brave old Don Benito, a veteran campaigner in Algiers and Mexico, who had borne me many a weary mile over the hot sands of the desert, up and down the red mountains, and through the Apache-haunted wilds of Arizona. My son and namesake,—I would say heir, were it not that it would seem like A. Ward's last joke, in view of the present extent of my landed estates and the condition of my exchequer,—as bold a rider and skillful fisherman as any boy of twelve may be accompanied me, mounted on his plucky and spirited little California mustang, his pet and companion for
