TALES OP FISHES 



ersed the wild-oat slopes until they are like a net- 

 work of trails. Every little space of grass has its 

 crisscross of goat trails. 



I rested high up on a slope, in the lee of a rugged 

 rock, all rust-stained and gray-lichened, with a deep 

 cactus-covered canon to my left, the long, yellow, 

 windy slope of wild oats to my right, and beneath 

 me the Pacific, majestic and grand, where the great 

 white rollers moved in graceful heaves along the 

 blue. The shore-line, cm"ved by rounded gravelly 

 beach and jutted by rocky p>oint, showed creeping 

 white lines of foam, and then green water spotted 

 by beds of golden kelp, reaching out into the deeps. 

 Far across the lonely space rose creamy clouds, 

 thunderheads looming over the desert on the main- 

 land. 



A big black raven soared by with dismal croak. 

 The wind rustled the oats. There was no other sound 

 but the sound of the sea — deep, low-toned, booming 

 like thunder, long crash and continuous roar. 



How wonderful to watch eagles in their native 

 haunts! I saw a bald eagle sail by, and then two 

 golden eagles winging heavy flight after him. There 

 seemed to be contention or rivalry, for when the 

 white-headed bird alighted the others swooped down 

 upon him. They circled and flew in and out of the 

 canon, and one let out a shrill, piercing scream. 

 They disappeared and I watched a lonely gull riding 

 the swells. He at least was at home on the restless 

 waters. Life is beautiful, particularly elemental 

 life. Then far above I saw the white-tipped eagle 

 and I thrilled to see the difference now in his flight. 

 He was monarch of the air, king of the wind, lonely 



198 



