This  part  of  the  coast  of  California  bears  a  curious
likeness  to  that  of  the  Channel  Islands  off  the  Brit-
tany Coast.  A  difference  there  is  in  details,  of  course,
—  geologic  structure,  vegetation,  and,  somewhat,
color.  Here,  warm  ochres,  creams,  and  drabs  alter-
nate on  the  broken  cliff  faces  with  olive-greens,  grays,
and  masses  of  ashy  rose ;  and  the  herbage  of  the  tops
carries  out  the  same  general  class  of  tone.  Cactus
growing  to  the  cliff  edges  gives  a  touch  wholly  char-
acteristic of  the  region.  But  the  long,  wing-like
reaches  of  the  land  line,  where  ten  miles  of  coast  will
contain  twice  that  number  of  little  emerald  bays
barred  one  from  the  other  by  white  arms  of  spray,
brought  constantly  to  my  mind  the  rocky  shores  of
Guernsey  and  Jersey.  There  are  some  little  castel-
lated peninsulas  that  I  could  match  almost  detail
for  detail  with  some  that  I  remember  near  St.  Aubyn.
Such  resemblances  are  full  of  pleasure:  they  keep
one's  thoughts  unstagnant  and  ever  on  the  wing;
and,  better  yet,  they  reach  down  and  stir  sometimes
those  subtlest  strings  of  all,  that  vibrate  in  the  dark,
quiet  chamber  of  the  mind  where  lies  the  well  of
tears,  keeping  that  unstagnant,  too.
One  afternoon  we  rode  a  few  miles  up  the  canon
toward  El  Toro,  the  nearest  point  of  the  railroad.
The  valley  —  for  it  is  too  gentle  in  outline  to  be
properly  called  a  canon  —  is  so  purely  typical  of
many  of  the  California  landscapes  that  I  will  de-


A  TYPICAL    CALIFORNIA    CANON     23

scribe  it  as  an  example.  As  soon  as  we  passed  the
gates  of  the  ranch  we  entered  a  league-long  valley
from  which  rose  smooth  slopes  of  pale-golden  grass.
