ONE day, soon after following my husband to our new home in San Francisco, I journeyed to the top of Mt. Tamalpias, a lofty peak which rises very near the coast line and some few miles from the city, that I might be shown the glories of this wonderful country as viewed from this rocky pinnacle. It chanced, however, to be an extremely foggy day, so that, as we wound through the dark dampness of the canyon over the most serpentine railroad in the world and emerged into the blinding sunlight which bathed the summit in grateful warmth, we could see nothing beyond a few feet below us. where the vapory mist lay like an immense billowy sea, rolling, tumbling, and ever changing in space. As I stood peering into its impenetrable depths, I seemed to see weird forms, deep caverns, dark abysses, and frowning mountain peaks. It was wonderfully interesting, but unsatisfying; for we wished to see the beautiful panorama that lay at our feet, if only the misty mantle were removed.

We were told that if we would remain until the sun had absorbed the mist we would be richly rewarded; so we waited patiently, as the clouds sank lower and lower down the mountain-side, until they finally disappeared, and there at our feet lay the whole glorious picture in nature's incomparable coloring,—San Francisco, looking like a white city in the bright light; the beautiful bay, with its ships of every name and nation anchored safely on its quiet bosom; the Golden Gate, opening out to the broad Pacific, which bore in its caressing arms the Farallones Islands, dimly visible as silent sentinels on the everlasting rock in a dreary waste. There were the cities of Oakland, Alameda, and Berkeley, their countless windows reflecting the light like so many flashing jewels, with many other towns and villages nestling in their emerald glades, and in the distance Mt. Diablo and Mt. Hamilton with their snowy crowns.

February 9, 1907

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