We, being his disciples, thought to follow his example, and spend the
day in the Berkeley hills whipping the stream for the wary brook
trout.

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