Our sixth anniversary was another, yes, yet another red-letter
memory--one of those times that the world seemed to have been leading up
to since it first cooled down. We left our robust sons in the care of
our beloved aunt, Elsie Turner,--this was back in Berkeley,--and one
Saturday we fared forth, plus sleeping-bags, frying-pan, fishing-rod,
and a rifle. We rode to the end of the Ocean Shore Line--but first got
off the train at Half Moon Bay, bought half a dozen eggs from a
lonely-looking female, made for the beach, and fried said eggs for
supper. Then we got back on another train, and stepped off at the end of
the line, in utter darkness. We decided that somewhere we should find a
suitable wooded nook where we could sequester ourselves for the night.
We stumbled along until we could not see another inch in front of us for
the dark and the thick fog; so made camp--which meant spreading out two
bags--in what looked like as auspicious a spot as was findable. When we
opened our eyes to the morning sunlight, we discovered we were on a
perfectly barren open ploughed piece of land, and had slept so near the
road that if a machine passing along in the night had skidded out a bit
to the side, it would have removed our feet.

That day, Sunday, was our anniversary, and the Lord was with us early
and late, though not obtrusively. We got a farmer out of bed to buy some
eggs for our breakfast. He wanted to know what we were doing out so
early, anyhow. We told him, celebrating our sixth wedding anniversary.
Whereat he positively refused to take a cent for the eggs--wedding
present, he said. Around noon we passed a hunter, who stopped to chat,
and ended by presenting us with a cotton-tail rabbit to cook for dinner.
And such a dinner!--by a bit of a stream up in the hills. That
afternoon, late, we stumbled on a deserted farmhouse almost at the
summit--trees laden with apples and the ground red with them, pears and