THE SAN GABRIEL MOUNTAINS 



ern slopes, wears a terribly forbidding aspect. 

 There is nothing of the grandeur of snow, or 

 glaciers, or deep forests, to excite curiosity or 

 adventure; no trace of gardens or waterfalls. 

 From base to summit all seems gray, barren, 

 silent dead, bleached bones of mountains, 

 overgrown with scrubby bushes, like gray 

 moss. But all mountains are full of hidden 

 beauty, and the next day after my arrival at 

 Pasadena I supplied myself with bread and 

 eagerly set out to give myself to their keeping. 

 On the first day of my excursion I went only 

 as far as the mouth of Eaton Canon, because 

 the heat was oppressive, and a pair of new 

 shoes were chafing my feet to such an extent 

 that walking began to be painful. While look 

 ing for a camping-ground among the boulder 

 beds of the canon, I came upon a strange, dark 

 man of doubtful parentage. He kindly invited 

 me to camp with him, and led me to his little 

 hut. All my conjectures as to his nationality 

 failed, and no wonder, since his father was 

 Irish and mother Spanish, a mixture not often 

 met even in California. He happened to be 

 out of candles, so we sat in the dark while he 

 gave me a sketch of his life, which was exceed 

 ingly picturesque. Then he showed me his 

 plans for the future. He was going to settle 

 among these canon boulders, and make money, 



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