a few peaches for the picking, and a spring of ice-cold water with one
lost fat trout in it that I tried for hours to catch by fair means or
foul; but he merely waved his tail slowly, as if to say, "One wedding
present you don't get!" We slept that night on some hay left in an old
barn--lots of mice and gnawy things about; but I could not get nearly as
angry at a gnawy mouse as at a fat conceited trout who refused to be
caught.

Next day was a holiday, so we kept on our way rejoicing, and slept that
night under great redwoods, beside a stream where trout had better
manners. After a fish breakfast we potted a tin can full of holes with
the rifle, and then bore down circuitously and regretfully on Redwood
City and the Southern Pacific Railway, and home and college and dishes
to wash and socks to darn--but uproarious and joyful sons to compensate.

The seventh anniversary was less exciting, but that could not be helped.
We were over in Alamo, with my father, small brother, and sister
visiting us at the time--or rather, of course, the place was theirs to
begin with. There was no one to leave the blessed sons with; also, Carl
was working for the Immigration and Housing Commission, and no holidays.
But he managed to get home a bit early; we had an early supper, got the
sons in bed, hitched up the old horse to the old cart, and off we fared
in the moonlight, married seven years and not sorry. We just poked
about, ending at Danville with Danville ice-cream and Danville pumpkin
pie; then walked the horse all the way back to Alamo and home.

Our eighth anniversary, as mentioned, was in our very own home in
Berkeley, with the curtains drawn, the telephone plugged, and our Europe
spread out before our eyes.