t.

April first is the open season for trout in California, but owing to
the scarcity of rain we feared the water in the brook would be too low
for good fishing. Providence favored us, however, with a steady
downpour on Wednesday, which put new hope in our hearts, and water in
the stream; and we decided to try our luck on Saturday afternoon, and
take what came to our hooks as a "gift of the gods."

Accordingly, we met at the Ferry Building, fully equipped, and took
the boat across San Francisco Bay, thence by cars to Claremont, and
from there struck into the hills. The wind blew cold from the bay,
having a clear sweep up through the Golden Gate, but as soon as we
began to make the ascent our coats became a burden.

It was a hard, tedious climb over the first range of hills, but upon
reaching the summit and looking down into the valley we felt well
repaid for our trouble, as we gazed in awed delight upon the
magnificent view spread out below us like a panorama.

The valley stretches out in either direction far below us, as if to
offer an uninterrupted flow for the mountain brook through which it
passes. We counted twelve peaks surrounding the valley, their rounded
domes glowing with the beautiful California poppy, like a covering of
a cloth of gold, while below the peaks the sloping sides looked like
green velvet. Here and there pine groves dotted the landscape, while
madrones and manzanitas stood out vividly against their dark-green
background.

Orinda Creek, the object of our quest, runs through this beautiful
valley, shut in on each side by the hills. Along the trail leading to
the stream blue and white lupines grow in profusion, giving a delicate
amethyst tinge to the landscape. Wild honeysuckle, with its
pinkish-red blossoms, is on every side and the California azalea
fringes both banks of the stream, its rich foliage almost hidden by
magnificent clusters of white and yellow flowers, which send out a
delightful, spicy fragrance, that can be detected far back from the
stream.

[Illustration: THE TROUT'S PARADISE]

The meadow larks called from the hillside their quaint "Spring o' the
year," the song sparrows sang their tinkling melody from the live
oaks, catbirds mewed from the thicket, and occasionally a linnet sang
its rollicking solo as it performed queer acrobatic feats while on the
wing.

Ahead of us a blue jay kept close watch over our movements, but at
last decided that we are harmless, and with a la