ely place here, but the water is constant company. As I
write, the only sound I can hear is the gentle roll of waves, and now
and then an under sound that seems to come from far-off caverns,--so
soft and so deep. I never lived so close to the water before, so that
its changes made a part of my every-day life. Even when I am so busy
that I do not look at it, I feel how the tide is creeping in, filling up
all the little inlets, and making all waste places bright and full.

MAY 10, 1878.

We made inquiries of some of the old residents, in reference to the
wind, before we decided to come here; but people who live in
half-settled places, I find, are very apt to misrepresent,--they are so
eager for neighbors. How much wiser we should have been to have
consulted the trees!--they show so plainly that they have fought all
their lives against a strong sea-wind, bending low, and twisting
themselves about, trying to get away from it.

We find that where we live is not Alameda proper, but is called the
Encinal District,--_encinal_ being the Spanish for _oak_. I do not know
whether they mean by it the old dusky evergreens, or the poison oak
which is every where their inseparable companion. Soon after we arrived,
we found ourselves severely affected by it. It was then in flower, and
we attributed its strength to that circumstance; but every change it
passes through re-enforces its life,--when it ripens its berries, when
its leaves turn bright, or when the autumn rains begin. Every thing
suits it; moisture or dryness, whichever prevails, appears to be its
element. Thoreau, who liked to see weeds overrun flowers, would have
rejoiced in its vigor. We never touch it; but any one sensitive to its
influence cannot pass near it, nor breathe the air where it grows,
without being affected by it. Alameda seems hardly ready for human
occupancy yet, unless something effectual can be done to exterminate
it. We often see superficial means taken, like burning it down to the
level of the earth; but what short-sighted warfare is that which gives
new strength after a brief interval! On one account I forgive it many
injuries,--that it furnishes our only bright autumn foliage, turning
into most vivid and beautiful shades of red. Except for the poison oak,
and a few of the long, narrow leaves of the Eucalyptus, that hang like
party-colored ribbons on the trees, we have no change in the foliage
between summer and winter; there are always the same old