<h2><SPAN name="topic4" id="topic4"></SPAN>Cañon and Hillside</h2>
<p>Did you ever see the Berkeley hills in the early morning, just
before the sun comes stealing over their rounded domes, or in the
evening, just before it sinks beneath the waters of the bay, and
casts its waning light over their rugged sides?</p>
<p>There never was a more pleasing sight than their uneven profile
sharply drawn against the grayish purple. Watch them as they
gradually assume shape out of the decreasing shadows. The blotches
of green and brown take form and grow into cañons and
gullies, rocks and towers, domes and minarets. What a place to
build a mosque, and say one's prayers to the rising sun!</p>
<p>Near the Greek Theater, which pushes its vast amphitheater into
the heart of the hills, winds a cañon, not large and
imposing, but very beautiful. It is called by some, after the
policy of the University of California, through whose domain it
runs, "Co-ed Cañon"; by others, from the abundance of
charming blossoms and luscious fruit found upon its rugged sides,
"Strawberry Cañon." But "What's in a name?" By any other it
would be as pleasing.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN href= "images/001.jpg" target="blank" name="image001" id="image001"> <ANTIMG width-obs="100%" src="images/001.jpg" alt="ON THE ROAD TO STRAWBERRY CANON" /></SPAN>ON THE ROAD TO STRAWBERRY CAÑON</div>
<p>Trees, gnarled and twisted, reach out their arms across the
little brook that sings merrily at the bottom. Far into the hills
it pushes its winding way, and one must needs scramble over many a
fallen tree and mossy rock in following its beautiful path.</p>
<p>One cannot see very far ahead, but at each succeeding turn in
the trail new wonders open before us. Here it is so narrow we are
compelled to walk in single file, while just beyond it broadens out
into a grassy slope, and through an open vista on the right we get
a glimpse of Old Grizzly looming up in all its grandeur. To the
left, far above us on the hillside, we can see a large cement "C"
some thirty feet in length, placed there by the students of the
university to commemorate hotly contested games of football between
the two colleges. With what jealous care is it watched over on the
eve of a battle to keep the contesting team from painting it with
their college colors!</p>
<p>In this cañon we find that pest of nature-lovers who are
susceptible to it, the poison oak. For all its sinister effects, it
is a charming shrub so far as appearance goes, with its bright,
glossy serrated leaves; but do not invite a too familiar
acquaintance, for it is a shrub to be admired at a distance.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN href= "images/037.jpg" target="blank" name="image037" id="image037"> <ANTIMG width-obs="100%" src="images/037.jpg" alt="SUNSHINE AND SHADOW" /></SPAN>SUNSHINE AND SHADOW</div>
<p>At a path that seems quite accessible we climb out of the
cañon, and strike out across the hills. We stop for a
moment's rest at a fence, and while we are filling our lungs with
the crisp morning air we see where a spider has industriously spun
his web during the night, from a stalk of ragweed to the fence
corner. The dew has settled upon it and each silken thread stands
out perfectly, shining in the morning sunshine like some old
jewelry made of filagree silver. You little realize, you tiny
spinner of silken fabrics, how easily your gauzy structure may be
broken, and all your work come to naught; for on the fence a
catbird, scolding incessantly, has one eye open for a stray titbit
in the shape of a little weaver of webs, and you may help to make
him an early breakfast.</p>
<p>The meadow larks are sending out their cheery "Spring o' the
year" from fence rail and covert, a song most sweet and inspiring.
A flock of blackbirds goes sailing past, and high overhead a
killdee's plaintive cry echoes over the valley. From here we get a
beautiful view of the bay and the Golden Gate, and in the far
distance the dome of Mount Tamalpais rises above the clouds.</p>
<p>The ferryboats from Oakland, Berkeley, Alameda, and Sausalito
are plying their ceaseless traffic from mole to mole. White-sailed
ships from foreign countries, outward bound with the tide, conveyed
by little bustling tugs, look like monster white-winged gulls; and
somber-hued gunboats, their portholes bristling with deadly engines
of war, strain at their cables. It is an inspiring sight, and,
turning away with reluctance, we circle the hill to Cragmont
Heights, stopping to rest on the rocky summit that overlooks the
valley.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN href= "images/039.jpg" target="blank" name="image039" id="image039"> <ANTIMG width-obs="100%" src="images/039.jpg" alt="" /></SPAN> CAÑON AND HILLSIDE</div>
<p>To our right in North Brae rises a massive pile of granite,
known as "Indian Rock." It marks the resting place of a number of
Indian warriors who once roamed the surrounding hills, and is a
fitting monument to this once noble race.</p>
<p>This is the time of year when the birds set up housekeeping; and
such debonair wooers the male birds are! Dressed in their gay
attire, they display it to the best advantage before the fair sex.
Is there anything so interesting or so amusing as bird courtship?
The rollicking song of the male, an exhibition of his vocal powers
worthy of a virtuoso, is accompanied by the most comical gymnastics
—bowing, scraping, and side-stepping like a dancing-master;
all of which, I am sure, is highly appreciated by the demure little
lady. I have seen birds courting in the stately figures of the
minuet, crossing over and back, bowing and curtsying, in a
dignified manner. Listen to the meadow lark as he pours out his
heart in a love song to his mate. As near as I can understand him
he is saying, "Spring is here, my dear, my dear," and in a lower
tone, "Let's build a nest." When such an ardent wooer lays siege to
my lady, using such exquisite music to further his suit, she must
have a heart of stone that would not quickly capitulate to his
amour.</p>
<p>The bobolink, that little minstrel of the marshes, teeters up
and down on a swaying cattail, and flirts most scandalously, as he
calls to his lady love: "What a pink, what a pink, little minx,
little minx! You're a dear, dear, dear."</p>
<p>But we cannot stay to spy upon such love scenes, and we strike
out on the trail for home, after listening with pleasure, as well
as profit, to these feathered musicians.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN href= "images/topic05.png" target="blank"><ANTIMG width-obs="100%" src= "images/topic05.png" alt="" /></SPAN></div>
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