icksilver mine, twelve miles from San Jose, and commanding
from its slopes a wondrous view of the valley and the Garden City, as
San Jose is called. And there is the interesting trip from San Jose to
Mt. Hamilton and the Lick Observatory. One can motor by a good road to
the summit of the mountain, 4,209 feet above sea level, and spend the
night at the hotel below on the mountain slope.

Leaving San Jose, we were more and more charmed with the valley as we
drove along through orderly orchards and past tasteful bungalows. This
was the California of laden orchards, of roses and climbing geraniums,
of green hills rising beyond the valleys, of which we had read. As we
approached the foot hills of the Santa Cruz Mountains we looked back
and saw the green valley with its ranks of trees unrolled below us.
Passing through the little town of Los Gatos (The Cats), we began to
climb. As we turned a curve on the winding mountain road, the green
expanses of the Happy Valley were lost to view. We were coming now into
the region of immense pine trees and of the coast redwoods, the Sequoia
sempervirens. The road was fair but very winding, requiring close
attention. We crossed singing brooks and passed wayside farms high in
the hills, with their little patches of orchard and grain. We saw a big
signboard indicating the two-mile road to the Montezuma Ranch School for
boys, and shortly after were at the top of the grade. Then came the
descent, the road still winding in and out among the forests. At the
Hotel de Redwood, a simple hostel for summer sojourners from the
valleys, we saw a magnificent clump of redwoods, around which had been
built a rustic seat. At the foot of the hill we turned left instead of
right, thus omitting from our itinerary the town of Santa Cruz and the
redwoods of the Big Basin. We hope to see this noble group of trees
sometime in the future. We took luncheon in a little cafe at
Watsonville. When I asked the young German waiter for steamed clams he
said, "Oh! you mean dem big fellers!" From Watsonville, a bright little
town, we drove on toward Salinas, making a detour which took us around
the town instead of directly through it. We were crossing the green
plains of the Salinas Valley, and before us rose the dark wooded heights
of the famous Monterey Peninsula. On through the town of Monterey to
Pacific Grove, a mile beyond, and we were soon resting in an ideal
bungalow watched over by two tall pines. What a memorable