is on an island. If the prison there could talk, it could tell many a tale of suffering during the civil war, the only offense being, the occupant sympathized with the Confederacy. Yonder is Goat Island, in whose shadow a number of boys and I, years ago, in our own beautiful sail boat, on a Saturday morning, made a fine beginning for a day's fishing, but the wretched fellows soon took a notion to return to Oakland—meantime the wind had sprung up and the Bay was lashed into great billows. I was hopelessly in the minority, and reluctantly took my place and steered the little craft over the mad waves. In a few minutes every fellow except myself was deathly sick, and I was left to manage sails and helm alone. It was my first lesson in navigation. Time and again I was sure we were lost, but the Lord must have interposed, though none of us were much given to a religious life. When we got safely ashore my interest in the boat was quickly disposed of to my fool-hardy companions. Through all these years I have fondly hoped I might some day finish that fish, so unceremoniously broken into.
SAUSALITO
is the end of my journey. My brother lives here in a lovely home built in a niche of the mountain and fronting the Bay, which is not twenty steps from his gate. San Francisco is plainly in view directly in front, and Oakland and other cities by the Bay, are to the left. This is the terminus of a railroad which runs back in Marin county through a beautiful country. People who live here and on back for miles to San Rafael, mostly have business in the city.
They are conveyed to and from their homes by cars and boats which run every half hour. It is said there are two thousand people in this burg; but I can't see where they are. In nooks and corners of the mountains they are stuck away so that it looks more like a thickly settled country community than a town. The streets run around the mountains on easy grades so that before one is aware of it he is on a high elevation. Exercise! You can get all you want here. The back entrance to my brother's home is some four hundred feet above his house and is reached by a flight of steps almost as steep as a ladder. I have always counted myself a good walker, but I am not in it with these Californians. Both men and women are great walkers. Remarking on the great number of ruddy-faced girls and women I saw, the quick explanation was: "We have so much open weather and the air is so bracing, our people are so much out of doors; hence the ruddy cheeks." I am a
POOR HAND AT SIGHT-SEEING.
Probably it comes from a sort of tired feeling which I have had since my birth; anyway, I don't like to start out in the business of seeing things, but I just had to. These people believe they have something worth seeing and they leave their affairs behind and give themselves to showing the tourists the sights. And they are worth seeing, too. You can write almost anything extravagant about California and it will not be far from the truth. I was glad I was not left to myself, but how helpless I am when it comes to writing about the sights. I can command only a few adjectives and they soon become commonplace. "Immense" is one of my favorites. "Wonderful" is another. Then comes "great" and a lot of little ones until I grow tired and only grunt as my guide raves over what we are looking at. If I could only rave over things! I will never have a better opportunity than now, but the thing is impossible for me.
"The City of Atlanta" is the name of the Observation Car which makes several trips daily to the Cliff House and return. The conductor is a good talker and knows his business thoroughly. While the car moves along at a good speed, he announces to the travelers the places of interest.
We pass the great power house where is generated the electricity which runs the many miles of electric car line; the Mission Dolores, an old adobe building erected in 1776; Golden Gate Park, covering more than one thousand acres; the Affiliate Colleges, three great buildings situated on a mountain side overlooking the city and bay, and finally the Cliff House on the point on the Pacific. Out there two hundred yards away are the
SEAL ROCKS.
A great herd of seals live there, protected by the authorities for the pleasure of the travelers who flock here by the thousands. In the afternoon they look like a flock of sheep resting in the shadows of the rock; but in the morning they are playing in the waters. At one time they sound like a pack of hounds far in the distance; at another, like a herd of hungry cattle. This, with the roar of the ocean against the rocks, makes a sound one never can forget.