I cannot vouch for the truth of this assertion, as I have never found
a town or hamlet along its winding course. In fact, I remember but one
place of abode along its entire length, and this, a weather-beaten
cottage nearly hidden by the pepper and acacia trees that surround it.

It is a quaint little place, and might have inspired the poet to
write that beautiful poem containing the lines,

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man,

for the cooling draught passed out to me one hot afternoon from this
house would certainly class the occupant as a benefactor.

The dew was sparkling on the grass when I set out in the early
morning, gossamer spider webs strung from leaf and stem glistened in
the sunlight, and up from a tuft of grass a meadow lark sprang on
silent wing, scattering his silvery notes, a paean of praise to the
early dawn.

A bluebird's notes blend with those of the song sparrow, and a robin
swinging on the topmost branch of a eucalyptus, after a few short
notes as a prelude, pours forth a perfect rhapsody of melody.

At this place a hill encroaches upon the road at the right, covered
thickly with underbrush and blackberry vines, its crest surmounted
with a stately grove of eucalyptus trees, while on the left there is
an almost perpendicular drop to the valley below. So narrow is the
road that teams can hardly pass each other. Why it should crowd
itself into such narrow quarters when there is room to spare is its