Winding down the hill-side and around the great reservoir, we enter the valley of San Andreas just as the sun is sinking in the roseate bank of fleecy mist which, like a great snow-drift, is piled up against the mountains on the west to their very summits. The bare plain, and brown, verdureless hills weary the eye no longer, but instead fresh green chaparral and tall, full-foliaged trees stretch out on every side, and we ride down a road embowered with shrubbery, and dark with the cool shadows of evening. Coveys of tufted quail rise and whirr away as we gallop on, and rabbits creep into the bushes at every turn in the road. At the entrance of a cañon stands a cottage, shaded by broad, spreading oaks and fragrant bay-trees; and by the door, book in hand, sits a fair young daughter of California, with great brown eyes, as beautiful as those of a sea-lion,—I can think of no more complimentary simile. She tells us that game is swarming, and that there will be rare sport for the hunters after the 15th of September, when the prohibition on shooting is removed. A huge grizzly took possession of the pasture on the hillside opposite the house some weeks previously, and stayed there undisturbed for a fortnight, only leaving when the wild clover, upon which he came to luxuriate, failed. Deer are seen almost daily, and a few days before a lynx, or wild-cat, or California lion,—the women could not tell which,—came down to the cottage in broad daylight, caught a fowl, and sat down by the door to eat it. A lady threw a shoe at the creature, which thereupon trotted off, with a growl, carrying his stolen dinner with him.
