Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.

In Tamal Land

Approaching Marin's Shores.

In Tamal Land

BY

HELEN BINGHAM

THE CALKINS PUBLISHING HOUSE
San Francisco, U. S. A.

Copyrighted, 1906,
By Helen Bingham

All Rights Reserved

DEDICATION

To the chum of my childhood,

The friend of my youth,

And my kindred soul—

My Mother—

This volume is lovingly dedicated.

INTRODUCTION

A secret nook in a pleasant land,

Whose groves the frolic fairies planned,

Where arches green, the livelong day,

Echo the blackbird's roundelay,

And vulgar feet have never trod

Spots that are sacred to thought and God.

—Emerson.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

In Tamal Land

To the average tourist there are few states in the Union which offer more attractions than California.

Though its mild climate, fertile valleys, and scenic beauties are counted among its chief assets, still they are not its sole possessions, for, linked to the present great commercial activity of the Pacific Coast is a chain of picturesque events, clustered about its birth and infancy, which lends to the whole a peculiar charm, giving it a distinct individuality.

One of the Commodious Ferry Boats.

While the footsteps of the Spaniards grow fainter and fainter as they glide away into the corridors of time, and their traces become gradually assimilated by the progressive and oft-times aggressive Yankee, nevertheless the echoes from that former non-progressive splendor float back to us, and history re-animates the old adobes, breathing into a few secluded valleys the spirit of the past.

As the seat of historic interest, Monterey has received more homage than any other county on the Slope. Tourists flock to pay court to her old landmarks, writers eagerly pore over her time-worn archives, and the wielders of the brush have congregated in such numbers as to form an artists' colony. Though Monterey is undoubtedly justified in carrying off the palm for her many attractions, yet it is but fair that she should divide the honors of the past with her sister counties, being content to reign as Sovereign of the Coast.

Skirting the Northern end of San Francisco Bay is one of the smallest and most picturesque counties of California.

The Ferry Landing.

As a tiny gem in a coronet appears insignificant when contrasted with the other stones in point of size, but when viewed alone is admired for the diversity of its coloring and rare quality, so Marin, when measured by acres, appears insignificant, but when estimated by the beauty and diversity of its scenery stands unique, apart, alone.

As we approach Marin's shores, after a half hour's ride across the Bay on a commodious modern ferry-boat, our first thought on nearing the land is its remarkable similarity to an Italian settlement. For surely this town, situated on the steep hillside, is a counterpart of many an Italian hamlet, which, clinging to some abrupt cliff or bluff, seems to defy nature by its occupancy.

The clear blue of the California sky overhead but added to the illusion, although upon closer approach it was gradually dispelled by the modern American houses in place of quaint Italian structures.

Leaving the Depot we passed an attractive little park, well kept and gay with flowers, and a walk of a few moments brought us to the most historic part of Sausalito.

Though not in the section designated "old Sausalito," still it is the oldest in memories, for it was here that John Read, the first English-speaking settler in the County, came in 1826, erecting near the beach a crude board house. While waiting for a land grant from the Mexican Government, Read lived here.

Main Street, Sausalito.

Being of an ingenious turn of mind and having a practical nautical knowledge, Read set about constructing a sail boat, which he subsequently plied between Sausalito and San Francisco, carrying passengers. This was the first ferry boat on the Bay and when we contrast the little sailboat making its periodical trips across a solitary Bay with the present ferry craft, passing on their route ships from every quarter of the globe, a mere three score of years seems short for such a change, and proves what can be accomplished by Anglo-Saxon energy and enterprise.

Sausalito Residences.

Upon receiving his grant for the Rancho Corte Madera del Presidio, lying north of Sausalito, Mr. Read moved there in 1834.

A few hundred yards back from the beach, in what is now called "Wildwood Glen," was the first adobe house built in Sausalito. Only a few stones now mark the spot on which it stood, and a solitary pear-tree, gnarled and knotted with age stands a living witness of peace and plenty and decay. For it was in the bountiful days preceding the great influx into California by the Americans that Captain William Antonio Richardson, an Englishman but lately arrived on a whaling vessel from "the Downs," made application, and was given a grant to the Sausalito Rancho by the Mexican Government. He soon began building his adobe house and with the aid of the Indians it was rapidly completed. In the spring of 1836 he brought his beautiful young wife, formerly the Senorita Maria Antonia Martinez, to their new abode.

The Club House, Sausalito.

The Senora Maria Antonio was the daughter of Ygnacio Martinez, for whom the present town of that name in Contra Costa County was called.

The Son of the Renowned Captain.

Of all the dreams of happiness and love that filled the minds of the youthful pair on that fair spring morning, as in a small boat they were rowed across the Bay, by Indians, to their new home, we can not judge, but I am sure their dreams, however fond, were realized, for it is recorded somewhere that joy and peace reigned supreme in the little adobe.

However this may be, a young orchard was set out, cattle were bought and tended and the Senora's clever hands soon had the walls laden with the sweetest of Castilian roses. A stream flowed by the house on its way to the Bay, and on many a bright morning the Indian women of the household might be seen bending low over the stones washing the family linen. The stream has long since disappeared, as also the remnant of the race that washed in its waters—one through an unaccountable law of nature, the other through the rapacious greed and oppression of the Anglo-Saxon race.

A Typical Roadway.

Owing to the abundance of pure, fresh water found on the Sausalito Rancho it was shipped to Yerba Buena and the Presidio. The water was conducted by spouts to the beach, thence into a tank on a scow, which conveyed it across the Bay. This mode of supplying San Francisco with water lasted for some time, until with the increase of population this primitive means was abandoned.

A tule boat operated by Indians regularly crossed the Bay for the mail, many of the Indians evincing considerable skill in navigation under the tutelage of their able master.

Standing beside a heap of stones—historic stones because the sole remnant of this abode of the past—my glance wandered to the blue water of the Bay which laps the edge of the glen and stretches over to the distant hills which descend in gentle undulations to this beautiful shimmering sheet of blue. And this Bay, too, speaks of the second settler of Marin, for it bears his name.

As my glance now fell on the enchanting little glen with its tangled woodland and steep declivities, and then to the fair stretches of land that lay beyond, a sigh of sadness escaped from me unawares. I thought how all this lovely region, this Rancho Sausalito, comprising 19,500 acres, as varied and beautiful as ever nature put her seal to, this land, which rightfully belonged to Richardson and his descendants, had been appropriated by others through pretext of law and what not, until the heirs of the pioneer can call but a small building lot their own. Thus we ever find that "man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn."

A Reminder of Rhineland.

But the son of the renowned Captain, a hale, hearty old gentleman, with a pleasant Spanish accent, speaks with calm equanimity of their loss of fortune, showing not a vestige of ill-will toward the transgressors, and practicing in full the true Christian spirit so often lauded but rarely seen.

"Sometimes, it is true, it makes me sad," he once replied, in answer to my queries, "to think of all the Rancho being gone. As a boy I used to ride, chasing the cattle, climbing the steep mountain sides followed by our vaqueros ... and how wild it was then and so beautiful—so beautiful!" Thus the heir to all these acres would extol their beauty without more reproach than that it sometimes made him sad.

Ascending the glen by a winding country road, shadowed by trees and shrubs, it was not long before we reached a small, low shingled cottage nestled deep in the shade of tall bays and buckeyes. A neat sign over the door bearing the inscription "O'Connell Glen," met our gaze, and then we knew that this little cottage, with its wealth of solitude and humble exterior, was the former home of the poet, Daniel O'Connell. For it was in this rural retreat that O'Connell, with his family, spent many busy, imaginative years.

A Hillside Road.

A bohemian of the truest kind, he delighted in what Marin had to offer. With a stout stick, and accompanied by his daughters, he would often be seen sallying forth from his rustic lodge to tramp over hills and through canyons, exploring the apparently inaccessible, viewing and absorbing the wondrous beauty of woodland fastnesses, airy heights, and rugged cliffs. Feeling the very pulse of nature, his poems were the embodiment of all he had seen and felt, delighting the reader with their subtle charm and graceful imagery, which were peculiarly the author's own.

Leaving his favorite retreat and last abode, for it was here in 1899 that the poet breathed his last, a short walk around the bend of the hill brought us to another spot, sacred to the memory of the poet. This is the O'Connell monument which, as the inscription tells us, was erected by his sorrowing friends. The monument is in the form of a granite seat, some fifteen feet in length, fashioned in a graceful, curving crescent. Placed on the bank above the roadway, it is surrounded by great masses of bright-colored flowers, and approached by a few stone steps. The floor is of small, inlaid stones, in the center of which a three-leaf Shamrock proclaims the nationality of the poet.

Hillside Gardening.

Besides the name he made for himself, O'Connell came of illustrious ancestors, being the son of a distinguished lawyer, Charles O'Connell, and grand-nephew of the great Irish patriot, Daniel O'Connell.

O'Connell's Seat.

On the back of the seat are inscribed these lines, written by the poet but ten days before his fatal illness, and prophetic of the long journey he was so soon to take, where, away from the cares and turmoil of this world, his soul could solve its remaining problems:

I have a Castle of Silence, flanked by a lofty keep,

And across the drawbridge lieth the lovely chamber of sleep;

Its walls are draped in legends woven in threads of gold.

Legends beloved in dreamland, in the tranquil days of old.

Here lies the Princess sleeping in the palace, solemn and still,

And knight and countess slumber; and even the noisy rill

That flowed by the ancient tower, has passed on its way to the sea,

And the deer are asleep in the forest, and the birds are asleep in the tree.

And I in my Castle of Silence, in my chamber of sleep, lie down.

Like the far-off murmur of forests come the turbulent echoes of town.

And the wrangling tongues about me have now no power to keep

My soul from the solace exceeding the blessed Nirvana of sleep.

Lower the portcullis softly, sentries, placed on the wall;

Let shadows of quiet and silence on all my palace fall;

Softly draw the curtains.... Let the world labor and weep—

My soul is safe environed by the walls of my chamber of sleep.

Turning from these verses to rest on the granite seat, we were confronted with a view of surpassing loveliness. Our attention had been so engrossed in examining this monument to genius that, until then, we had failed to perceive the commanding situation it held.

Below us stretched the peaceful waters of the Bay; on the left Angel Island and the Berkeley hills, with old Diablo dimly seen in the distance; in front, Alcatraz with its warlike aspect lay basking in the sun; while to the right the City, with its many hills and pall of smoke, could be plainly discerned. Truly a fitting spot for this memorial to genius.

Daniel O'Connell.

Another attractive feature of Sausalito, besides its superb marine view, is its abundance of flowers. These not only grow in thick profusion in the quaint hillside gardens, but are planted beside the roadways, covering many an erstwhile bare and unsightly bank with trailing vines, gay nasturtiums and bright geraniums. There is something in the spirit of this hillside gardening, this planting of sweet blossoms for the public at large, that is very appealing in these days of monopolistic greed, when everything that is worth while has a fence around it. Thus it is refreshing to find a little spot in this dollar-mad America where the citizens disinterestedly beautify the public streets for the enjoyment of each passer-by.

A Wind-Blown Tree.

Owing to the hilly surface of Sausalito, driving is rather a precarious enjoyment, but there is one drive which, with its superb marine vistas, amply compensates for the apparent lack of level roads. With the intention of taking this drive we procured a team and were soon driven rapidly along the boulevard skirting the water front, past the San Francisco Yacht Club, with its medley of white sailboats and smaller craft bobbing about in the water, and then through old Sausalito nestled in the gulch. Thence ascending the hill, the road wound around bend after bend with the Bay ever below us at a distance of a few hundred feet.

Arriving at a small, shingled lodge beside a gate through which we passed into the reservation, we soon came upon the Fort Baker Barracks in the hollow of the hills. It seems as if Nature, in anticipation of man's conflict with his brother man, had formed these hills on purpose for a fortification, so well adapted do they seem for their present use.

Beyond the Barracks, at the base of a cliff, we spied some small, white buildings clustered on the rocks extending out into the water. This proved to be Lime Point, and the buildings we were approaching belong to the Government, constituting a lighthouse- and fog-signal station. We found it to be one of the many smaller stations that are distributed along the Coast. There is a diminutive white light, and a steam fog whistle is kept ever ready to send out its note of warning at the slightest approach of the milky vapor which is a terror to the seamen.

Lime Point is directly opposite Fort Point, the distance being but seven-eighths of a mile, and forms the Northern point of Golden Gate Strait. While the view from these rocks is expansive, still it could not be called commanding, as the Point is too near the sea level to give the height and majesty requisite for an enchanting ocean vista.

Fissures of the Cliffs.

As a pass is required before one can go through the reservation we retraced our steps to the Barracks and upon receiving the passport from the Sergeant Major, proceeded on our way up the steep, winding road which leads out of the Valley. Reaching the summit, the road continues its circuitous route; now in sight of the Bay and City, and again in among the bare, rolling hills.

While descending into a little valley we were stopped by a number of heavily laden teams, lined up in the middle of the road. Before we could question as to the delay, a volley of shots rang out, resounding again and again in the silent canyons, and a flapping red flag near by plainly denoted that the soldiers were engaged in target practice.

In reply to our query as to the length of time we should be required to halt, a soldier on the team in front informed us that sometimes one had to wait an hour or an hour and a half. Other teams having lined up behind, a retreat was impossible, and the prospect of a long wait in the hot sun was not very agreeable. We learned that a new barracks was in the course of construction below, in the valley at the head of the Rodeo Lagoon, and these teams were laden with provisions for the men stationed there.

Nearing the Point.

Just as we had composed ourselves for the inevitable, a brisk waving of red flags was seen in the Valley, followed by the moving of the cavalcade in front; and, much to our satisfaction, we soon left our pessimistic informer far in the rear.

Fishing Boats.

On the most southerly point of Marin a narrow rocky neck of land extends some distance into the Ocean. At the base are jagged rocks over which the sea surges ceaselessly, cutting arches and miniature caves in the fissures of the cliffs. From this rocky headland, which formerly was a menace and terror to navigators, now streams a steady light, and the point erstwhile spelling destruction now proves a blessing to vessels which are guided safely into port by the aid of its welcome light. This is Point Bonita and the Bonita Light, which, as we approached, stood out clear in the afternoon sun.

The Derrick Wharf.

Stopping at the lighthouse keeper's dwelling, we proceeded on foot to the Point, accompanied by the keeper. Pausing in the narrow pathway, he drew our attention to a small derrick-wharf for the tender, at the base of the steep cliff on which we stood. This he explained was where the boat, which touches here three times a week, lands provisions, oil, and fuel.

"But, how," I asked in astonishment as I gazed down the dizzy depth, "do you get them up here?"

"Oh, that is very simply done," he responded; "we start up the engine and they are hauled up the bluff on a tram."

Owing to the perilous windings of the path around an almost perpendicular cliff a small tunnel has been cut through the solid rock. As we emerged from this tunnel the Lighthouse confronted us only a few yards away.

Point Bonita Lighthouse.

The tower containing the light is a square, brick structure twenty-one feet in height, situated at the edge of the Point at an elevation of one hundred and twenty-four feet. The Bonita Light, although of second-class rating, is so advantageously situated that its fixed, white rays are visible seventeen miles at sea.

The first lighthouse was established here in 1855, the light being placed in the picturesque old tower still standing higher up on an adjoining promontory and now serving as a day signal. The location was unsurpassed, they say, in clear weather; but when the fog rolled in it was quickly seen that a great mistake had been made in elevating the lamp, for often when the light was entirely obscured by a fog bank, the bluff below would be quite clear, so in 1877 the light was removed to its present location.

Overlooking the Fog.

An old gun, now rusty, lying beside its gun-carriage on the bluff, was the first fog signal established on the Pacific Coast by the government. In foggy weather it was discharged every hour and a half during day and night.

When we contrast the present steam sirens, blowing five blasts every thirty-five seconds, with the former primitive means, we realize a little what scientists and inventors have been doing these fifty years.

The genial keeper, who is a second cousin of the late Colonel Robert G. Ingersoll, showed us every nook and cranny in the place, from the boilers, the lamp, and its appurtenances down to the neat store-rooms and paint lockers.

Though I have visited many fog-stations before, this one surpassed all others in its perfect order and scrupulous cleanliness, reminding one of a well regulated ship. So exactly was every corner and space utilized, that, as Dickens once remarked of a steam-packet, "everything was something else than what it pretended to be."

All the appliances of the Station are in duplicate. Thus, if one siren becomes disabled, another immediately takes its place; so with the boilers, etc.

Retracing our steps to the mainland, we noted on the edge of the cliff near the keeper's dwelling the life-saving station whose crew do much effective work about these jagged headlands. Bidding good-bye to the keeper, we turned our backs on Bonita and started homeward. We had been so engrossed with the Point and its environs as to be unconscious of the flight of time, and, noting with surprise the waning afternoon, we urged our horses to a brisk pace and sped rapidly along the elevated roadway.

The First Fog Signal.

The sun was slowly approaching the edge of the horizon, and Bonita, still visible in the West, stood out a silhouette against a brilliant sky. At its feet lay outstretched the gorgeously illumined sea; some fleecy golden cloudlets, floating over the Gate, seemed a soft shower of petals from the State's fair emblem; while the mellow light of the departing day still rested lovingly on the loftiest hilltops, and over on the city side occasional windows reflected his glory, as with a spot of glistening gold. To the southward the blue misty tones of the Santa Cruz Mountains began to merge into their robes of approaching night.

Suddenly out upon the still air rang a deep boom! boom! Angel Island was rendering her last tribute to the god of day.

Angel Island.

The Departing Day.

Then there came to me those beautiful lines of our own poet, Lowell Otus Reese:

A touch of night on the hill-tops gray;

A dusky hush on the quivering Bay;

A calm moon mounting the silent East—

White slave the day-god has released;

Small, scattered clouds

That seemed to wait

Like sheets of fire

O'er the Golden Gate.

And under Bonita, growing dim,

With a seeming pause on the ocean's rim,

Like a weary lab'rer, sinks the sun

To the booming crash of the sunset gun.

All over the long slopes grown with green,

With the white tents scattering in between,

The flickering camp-fires start to glow

In the groves of the fair Presidio;

While the solemn chord

Of the evening hymn

Rolls over the Bay

Through the twilight dim

As the flag comes down to an anthem grand,

The brave, old song of our native land,

And Angel Isle, when the song is done,

Booms out "Amen!" with its sunset gun.

Although Marin County was first opened up by the advent of the North Pacific Coast Railroad in 1875, it was not until the transfer to the North Shore that the road was operated in its present modern system.

With the exception of the extreme North and East where the trains are run by steam, the County is traversed by well appointed electric trains which combine easy riding with quick transit.

This was the first electric line in California to be operated by the third rail system, and it has proved satisfactory in every detail. Owing to the danger of contact with the third rail, the road is fenced on both sides, and the rail is concealed at stations.

At the head of Richardson's Bay, and but a short distance from Mill Valley, is situated the North Shore Powerhouse. Here the power, which is transmitted from Colgate, over 150 miles away, is stored. Should there be any accident and stoppage to the power, electricity is generated at the Powerhouse by steam, which is always kept in readiness.

As I gazed at the three switches, each in its separate vault (in order to be kept fire-proof) it was difficult to realize that in the small wires I beheld were centered power to operate trains, illuminate and run machinery and countless other utilities.

Mt. Tamalpais From Mill Valley.

As this, the greatest motive power in the world to-day, was long unknown except as an element of destruction, until the man came who harnessed the lightning and made it do man's work, so there are still undoubtedly other forces of nature which but await the master mind to discover their utility.

The Powerhouse.

A short distance west of the Powerhouse, on a slightly elevated mound, is an old orchard whose gnarled trees have sheltered for a generation and more the yellow adobe walls of the first settler of Marin.

But the elements of nature with relentless fingers have played about this relic of the past, until but a small vestige is left to remind us of what has been.

An Electric Train.

When a grant to the Corte Madera del Presidio Rancho was given to John Read he began building his home, and in order to construct a large, commodious adobe, he erected a sawmill in the vicinity, and there the lumber for his home was whipsawed.

Thus, it is this mill, which is still standing in undisturbed repose these many years, which gave the surrounding valley its name.

Read had barely finished his adobe when he died, and the place subsequently passed into the hands of the boldest bandit of Marin.

The terror of the surrounding counties—whose very name sent a chill even to the bravest heart—was Barnardino Garcia, otherwise called "Three-fingered Jack." He possessed all the daring and bravery of a dauntless marauder, and the anecdotes of his bloody adventures form many a weird and ghostly tale when told by the flickering firelight of a winter's night, sending the listener to bed inwardly quaking, with eyes peering into dark corners.

A Relic of the Past.

The most widely known of his crimes was committed shortly after the raising of the Bear Flag at Sonoma, which proclaimed the Golden West to be the Republic of California.

The Bear Flag party being short of ammunition and a rumor gaining circulation to the effect that General Vallejo had a cache of powder stored on the Sotoyome Rancho near the present town of Healdsburg, it was decided to send men to procure some. Cowie and Fowler volunteered to go, although the journey was known to be a perilous one; but the need was great, and these pioneers considered it no risk.

Mill Valley Depot.

They were warned, however, to avoid the way through Santa Rosa, and to confine their paths to the hills out of the ken of Garcia and his band.

Whether the Americans failed to heed the warning, or whether Garcia's men discovered them in the hills, will never be known. They were taken prisoners, under a pledge that their lives would be spared, but were finally murdered with great cruelty.

When Cowie and Fowler did not return to Sonoma within a reasonable time, great anxiety was felt in the little garrison.

Finally a searching party was sent out, but it soon returned with news of the murder.

The Bear Flag leaders swore revenge on the murderers, and eventually captured a number of Garcia's band, although he himself escaped. A fugitive from justice, he journeyed south, becoming lieutenant to the famous desperado, Joaquin Murietta, only to be subsequently shot in 1853 by Captain Harry Love's Rangers. His hand of three fingers was sent as a trophy to the commandant.

The Three Wells.

Thus ended the career of this bold adventurer.

The Cascade.

Though there are many towns in Marin which command a more expansive vista, and offer by their marine situation greater diversity in out-door sports, still Mill Valley, nestling at the base of Tamalpais, has proved a delightful summer retreat and home center; for, dotted in the wooded canyons, beside the streams, or in some sunny exposure may be found many artistic dwellings which, while possessing the advantages of the country, are within easy access of the city.

The Old Mill.

The most notable among the attractive residences is the home of Mr. George T. Marsh.

Stepping within the odd wooden gate, which reminds one of the "Toriis," or sacred gates of Nikko, the stranger feels that he has indeed touched a fairy wand, and been transported to the heart of the Mikado's realm.

Like the Mikado's Realm.

Liquid streams, spanned by fantastic miniature bridges on whose banks dwarf shrubs of various kind abound; fish ponds and islands; quaint metal lamps beside the roadway on their low posts, that are unique by daylight and when lit add all the witchery and charm of the floral isle; these and numerous other features of the Orient come unexpectedly upon the enchanted visitor, until he forgets the busy commercial activity of the outer world, and is in fancy again wandering in the grand old dreamy groves of Miyajima.

Another spot deserving the attention of the visitor is the quaint Club-House of the Out-Door Art Club. This Club has been organized by the ladies of Mill Valley for the purpose of preserving the natural beauties of the town and vicinity and staying, if possible, the hand of those primitive beings who, with ruthless vandalism, cut down and otherwise destroy the most prized of our rural possessions, our noble trees.

Much credit is due these energetic ladies in their worthy endeavor to teach those who have "eyes that see not" the wondrous beauties of Nature.

Besides its own unique features, the chief attraction which draws to this little burg tourists and travelers from all parts, as by a magnet, is the fact that it is the starting point of the Mill Valley and Mt. Tamalpais Scenic Railway.

Leaving the station, the mountain train winds through redwood groves, beside streams and pools, passing on its route the Hotel Blithedale, founded many years ago by Dr. Cushing as a sanitarium, so propitious to health is this sheltered, sunny exposure.

A Reminder of the Toriis.

Some of the Quaint Lamps.

The Dining Room at Miyajima.

The train is operated by a steam-traction engine which combines the ordinary cog system with an additional contrivance appropriate for turning curves. As the train gradually climbs in its serpentine route, and chaparral takes the place of redwood, the country below begins to unfold; towns appear in miniature, and hills which on close approach have distinct characteristics now merge into one another, forming an unbroken mass which stretches west to the Pacific, on whose sapphire bosom may frequently be seen the dim outline of the Farallon Islands, while to the southward Point San Pedro and the City are visible, and San Francisco Bay with intricate windings can be seen to join San Pablo and Suisun bays on the east.

A Creek in Summer.

In the Hay Field.

The Out-door Art Club.

It requires many trips to fully appreciate and comprehend the marvelous diversity of views spread before one, while the variety of superb effects to be witnessed from this mountain cannot be found in a single visit.

To watch the wonderful radiance of sunrise when Apollo mounts in his chariot of fire above the Berkeley hills, or to see a billowy floor of fog, outspread before one, obscuring the lower world and leaving naught save this mountain peak unwrapped by the fog-mantle; and then to witness the pale light of the moon marking a silver pathway on the Bay, and casting grotesque shadows on the landscape; and these are but a few of the beauties garnered here.

What the Club is Trying to Prevent.

The road which is known as "the crookedest in the world," turns innumerable sharp curves, finally twisting into a double bow-knot and, extricating itself, continues winding its way up, stopping a few moments at West Point, where passengers for Bolinas take the stage.

Arriving at the railroad's destination, the Tavern, the passengers alight to luncheon in its well-appointed dining-room, or lounge on the spacious veranda, enjoying at ease the superb views revealed below.

But if the traveller be something of a pedestrian he will take the zigzag, cleated steps which lead from the Tavern to the top.

Here the San Francisco Examiner's Marine Observatory is located, whose telescope is said to sight ships seventy miles at sea.

The Mountain Train.

But this is not the only walk on the Mountain. Many trails wind about its sides disclosing shady nooks, a delightful cool spring and countless other surprises, which are easily reached owing to the guidance of artistic little signs which appear at short distances apart, while location rods are placed at intervals on the path circling the Mountain, enabling the visitor to find the various points of interest without any difficulty.

Through the Redwoods.

A few hundred feet from the Tavern is located a Government Weather Bureau, and in its proximity is to be placed the seismograph now being made in Strasburg, Germany, by order of the Weather Bureau Department in Washington. The instrument is said to be on a more elaborate plan than any in this country except the one in Washington, D. C., of which this will be a counterpart. Some time is required for its completion, so, presumably it will not be installed and ready to receive earthquakes until early next year.

Turning Innumerable Curves.

Descending the mountain on the train to West Point, we alighted and after lunching at the Inn, mounted the stage which was bound for Bolinas.

The air on these mountain slopes is most exhilarating, and as we sped along down the gradually descending roadway, the breath of azaleas was wafted on the breeze from the canyons, while at each bend of the road the salt zephyrs from the Ocean became more perceptible.

From the Crest of Mt. Tamalpais.

Leaving the Monarch of Marin we soon came in sight of the white sand-spit with Dipsea, the new resort on the beach, and the glorious Pacific stretching thousands of miles beyond the horizon.

The Tavern.

Alighting from the stage we embarked in a steam-launch which glided rapidly across the Bolinas Lagoon. Steep, massive hills encircle the Lagoon on the right, while on the left, becoming more apparent at each glide of the launch, lies Bolinas, the town, and our destination.

The Marine Observatory.

Owing to its small size and remote location we expected the usual hardships which accrue from a country hotel and its numerous incongruities; imagine our surprise therefore, when arriving at this little town, which is a stranger as yet to railroads, to find a cozy hostelry awaiting us.