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.

Hither come the San Gabriel lads and lassies, to gather ferns and dabble away their hot holidays in the cool water, glad to escape from their commonplace palm-gardens and orange-groves.