Byways Around San Francisco Bay Part 6

Sitting on a log, one end of which projects over the stream, I watch a dragon-fly, or darning needle, float over the water, his flight so swift my eyes can hardly follow it. At last it stops in front of me, perfectly poised for a second, but with wings in rapid motion, then darts away to perform its acrobatic feat of standing on its head on a lilypad, or to feast on the gnats and other insects that it captures while on the wing. Truly it is rightly named a dragon.

The whirligig-beetles, those social little black fellows, gather in large numbers and chase each other round and round in graceful curves, skating over the water as if enjoying a game of tag.

Leaving the beetles at their game, I come to a place where the brook seems to hesitate on the brink of a mimic waterfall, as if afraid to take the dive, but like a boy unwilling to take a dare, it plunges over the brink to the pool below, with gurgling laughter, in a perfect ecstasy of bravado.

A leaf drops from an overhanging bough, falling so lightly that it barely makes a ripple, then sails away like a mimic s.h.i.+p to far-off ports, dancing along at every caprice of the fitful current; only to be stranded at last, cast away like a s.h.i.+pwrecked galleon, on some distant island.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ON BEAR CREEK]

In the shadows the brook seems to have a more solemn tone, in keeping with its somber surroundings, singing its song to the white-petaled saxifrage that peeps out at it over the bed of maidenhair fern, or the bright-leaved water cress; then flas.h.i.+ng out into the sunlight, and, like a boy out of school, romping and laughing in utter abandon.

Flowering currants, with rose-pink cl.u.s.ters of blossoms, line the banks, scattering their fragrance far and near. The rancorous cry of the catbird, and the rattling call of the kingfisher, that feathered spirit of the stream, are left behind; the clear flutelike notes of the meadow lark take their place, and the hills, covered with wild flowers, roll back from its margin, as if to make room for its uninterrupted flow.

The Western bluebird floats across the meadow like a flas.h.i.+ng sapphire, and the lark-sparrow pours forth his melody, as he teeters up and down on a weed stalk.

But at night the brook is heard at its best, when it performs its symphonies for the flickering moonlight that nestles upon its bosom, and the stars that reflect their lamps on its surface.

Make your camp on its margin and when your fire burns low, and you draw your blanket around you, with the mountain brook singing its lullaby, and the vesper sparrow chanting its melodious vesper hymn, you can say with the psalmist, "I will both lay me down in peace and sleep," and you might add, "lulled by the song of the mountain brook."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The Song of the Reel

Close by the edge of the lily pads, there's a flash and swirl of spray, And the line draws taut, and the rod dips low, and I sing as he speeds away; And I whir and click with the joy of life, as the line runs in and out, And I laugh with glee as I reel him in, the gamy and speckled trout.

And again the silken line is cast, and the fly like a feather glides, Close to the rock where the water's deep, and the wary black ba.s.s hides.

There's a strike and a run as the game is hooked, and his rush with a snub is met, But he yields at last to the steady strain, and is brought to the landing net.

As the sun sinks low in the western sky, and the shadows longer grow, And the night hawk wheels in his silent flight, and the crickets draw their bow, And the cat-tails wave in the gentle breeze, and the boat glides on apace; Then I reel in the line, while the bamboo rod is laid away in its case.

The ba.s.s and the trout, and the wall-eyed pike, the pickerel and muskalonge, Have each and all been lost or won as I caused them to race or plunge, I'm the sportsman's friend, and a foeman bold, and I've filled full many a creel; For what would the fisherman's luck be worth without the song of the reel?

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The Old Road

There is an old road that I love to follow. If one may judge by appearances, it is but slightly used by travelers, for it seems to lead nowhere, and is quite content in its wanderings, winding through canons, over hills, and down valleys. I am told by one who ought to know--for he is an old resident--that if you follow its tortuous course far enough, it will lead you to a town called Walnut Creek, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this a.s.sertion, 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 pa.s.sed out to me one hot afternoon from this house would certainly cla.s.s the occupant as a benefactor.

The dew was sparkling on the gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.s each other. Why it should crowd itself into such narrow quarters when there is room to spare is its own secret.

Stretching its dusty length along, it soon broadens out as if glad to escape from its cramped quarters, and glides under the wide spreading branches of a California buckeye, which stands kneedeep in the beautiful clarkia, with its rose-pink petals, and wand-like stalks of the narrow-leaved milkweed, with silken pods bursting with fairy sails ready to start out on unknown travels.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE OLD ROAD]

Leaving the shade, it climbs the hill for a broader view of the surrounding landscape, and looks down on the bay on one side, and the rolling hills and valleys on the other. Yellow b.u.t.tercups nod to it from the meadow, and the lavender snap dragons wave their threadlike fingers in silent greeting. Tall, stately teasels stand like sentinels along the way, and the balsamic tarweed spreads its fragrance along the outer edge.

Threading its way down a steep hill; through a wealth of tangled gra.s.ses; past a grove of live oaks, from whose twisted and contorted limbs the gray moss hangs in long festoons, by Indian paintbrush and scarlet bugler gleaming like sparks of fire amid the green and bronze foliage, it glides at last into a somber canon. There a bridge spans the brook that gurgles its elfin song to cheer the dusty traveler on its way.

The laurel, madrone, and manzanitas keep it company for some distance on either side, and a catbird mews and purrs from a clump of willows on the margin of the stream. A dozen or more yellow-winged b.u.t.terflies gathered at a moist spot, scatter like autumn leaves before a gust of wind at my approach, dancing away on fairy wings like golden sunbeams.

[Ill.u.s.tration: IT CLIMBS THE HILL FOR A BROADER VIEW]

At a place where the road makes a bend to the right, and the cat-tails and rushes grow in profusion, a blue heron, that spirit of the marsh, stands grotesque and sedate, and gazes with melancholy air into the water. Bullfrogs pipe, running the whole gamut of tones from treble to ba.s.s, hidden away amid the water gra.s.ses. Darning needles dodge in and out among the rushes in erratic flight, and a blackbird teeters up and down on a tulle stem while repeating over and over his pleasant "O-ko-lee."

But the road does not stop to look or listen, and once more it climbs the hill where the golden poppy basks in the suns.h.i.+ne, and the dandelions spread their yellow carpet for it to pa.s.s over, or, nodding silken heads scatter their tiny fleet of a hundred fairy balloons upon the wings of the summer winds.

Down the road, whistling blithely, comes a slip of a boy, with fis.h.i.+ng rod, cut from the adjacent thicket, over his shoulder and a can of bait tucked securely under his arm, happy as a king in antic.i.p.ation of the fish he may never catch. At his heels trots contentedly a yellow dog. True companions of the highway are they, for no country road would be complete without its boy and dog, and as I pa.s.s them I call back, "Good luck, my doughty fisherman," and the road answers--or was it an echo?--"Good luck, good luck."

But at last the shadows creep down canon and hillside, the soft light of evening touches the tops of tree and shrub with a rosy splendor, shading from green to gold, from gold to purple; and through the gathering dusk the road sinks into the surrounding gloom, toiling on in silence with only the stars for company, and the lights from firefly lanterns to guide it on its lonely way.

[Ill.u.s.tration]