as it dashes in mimic fury over some unseen obstacle, as if it were
playing hide and seek with the shadows along the bank. And we stop to
rest and listen with pleasure to the music of its woodland melody. A
song sparrow joins in the chorus with his quaint sweet lullaby, like
the tinkling of Venetian glass, his notes as clear and delicate as a
silver bell. He evidently believes that singing lightens his labors,
for he is industriously gathering material for the new home he is
building close at hand aided by his demure mate, who, in reality, does
most of the work.

[Illustration: BROOK AND WATERFALL]

The trail grows steeper and harder to climb as we ascend. We hear the
sound of falling water ahead of us, and around a bend in the path, and
through an opening in the trees, we come upon a beautiful waterfall
pouring over the rocks like a bridal veil.

We drop our cameras and scramble down the rocks, drinking cup in hand,
and slake our thirst at this crystal fountain. Was ever a more
delightful draught for thirsty mortals than from this little pool
hidden away here in this mountain fastness? It is a place in which
druids and wood-nymphs might revel, surrounded on all sides by stately
trees and moss-grown rocks, fringed with ferns of all kinds, from the
delicate maidenhair to the wide-spreading shield variety, bordered
with blue and gold lupine (California's colors), and close to the
falls, a bush thickly covered with white flowering dogwood blossoms,
standing out like a rare painting against the green-and-brown
background--a spot to thrill the soul of an artist. Yet how many had
ever found this sylvan retreat, hidden away, as it is, from the main
highway?