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?
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!
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.
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.
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!
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.
[Illustration: SUNSHINE AND SHADOW]
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.
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.
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.
[Illustration: CAÑON AND HILLSIDE]
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.
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.
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."
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.
[Illustration]