And then," he continued,
"I can keep bees, and make money that way, too, for the mountains above
here are just full of honey in the summer-time, and one of my neighbors
down here says that he will let me have a whole lot of hives, on shares,
to start with. You see I've a good thing; I'm all right now." All this
prospective affluence in the sunken, boulder-choked flood-bed of a
mountain-stream! Leaving the bees out of the count, most fortune-seekers
would as soon think of settling on the summit of Mount Shasta. Next
morning, wishing my hopeful entertainer good luck, I set out on my
shaggy excursion.
[Illustration: A BEE-PASTURE ON THE MORAINE DESERT, SPANISH BAYONET.]
About half an hour's walk above the cabin, I came to "The Fall," famous
throughout the valley settlements as the finest yet discovered in the
San Gabriel Mountains. It is a charming little thing, with a low, sweet
voice, singing like a bird, as it pours from a notch in a short ledge,
some thirty-five or forty feet into a round mirror-pool. The face of the
cliff back of it, and on both sides, is smoothly covered and embossed
with mosses, against which the white water shines out in showy relief,
like a silver instrument in a velvet case.
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