282 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



wins the bet, and quite recovers his temper. The 

 night before he had talked rather contemptuously 

 of quail-shooting; now he is humble, but very 

 enthusiastic. 



We spend ten minutes on the summit, inhaling 

 the crisp, fragrant air, and pointing out the different 

 landmarks. Below, to the west, lies the Pacific. 

 The herring are in the bay, and we can see the 

 big pelicans a-fishing, accompanied by their para- 

 sites, the gulls. Some streamers of grey mist steal 

 quietly across the waters, and out of a fog-bank to 

 the north comes the weird scream of a siren. We 

 tell our visitor of the fish we have caught in this 

 summer sea. We point out the marshes where we 

 have slain hecatombs of ducks. Through the low- 

 lying land, like a silver serpent, winds the creek 

 that once swarmed with trout, and at its mouth we 

 have caught and still can catch, steel-head trout, 

 that take the fly and afford glorious sport for a too 



brief season each year. A points out a deep 



canon where black-tailed deer may still be found, 

 and sighs as he speaks of the countless herds of 

 them that roamed through these foot-hills in the 



seventies and early eighties. A is a laudator 



temporis acti, and not without reason. 



Then we descend the cliff, and, passing through the 

 sage-brush, bag a few more birds. The day being 

 very warm, we are constrained to beat the thickest 

 covers, and flush at last another bevy, that swings 

 into a gulch and from thence scatters into high 

 chaparral. We walk through the thicket close 

 together, and miss many snap-shots. A woodcock, 

 flitting through hollies, is an easier mark than a 



