and restrictions should be put upon the vandals, who, not content with
picking what they can use to beautify the home, tear them up by the
roots just to see how large an armful they can gather, scattering
their golden petals to the four winds of heaven when they begin to
droop.

[Illustration: The Turn of the Trail]

An old dead pine, whitened by many storms, its gnarled and twisted
branches pathetic in their shorn splendor, is brought into prominence
by the background of vivid green into which it seems to shrink, as if
to hide its useless naked skeleton.

But the lengthening shadows in the valley warn us to begin our
descent, and as we have no desire to sleep out on the trail without
blankets or other camp comforts, we begin our return trip by another
route. Light wisps of fog begin to gather around the top of Mount
Tamalpais, and we hasten our steps, for to be caught in a fog at this
altitude may mean a forced camp, with all its attending
discomforts.

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY]

We pause for a moment on the margin of a little lake nestling amid the
hills, its blue waters, unruffled by the wind in its sheltered nook,
reflecting back as in a mirror the trees that surround it on all
sides. But we may not linger to drink in the beauty of this quiet
spot, where the red deer once slaked their thirst at its quiet margin,
standing kneedeep in the rushes and lilypads.