the recollections of the wild life of other days; or, as Beranger would express it:
"The brave days when we were twenty-one."
And of all places on earth for solid comfort in camp there is none like California. The pure, dry, mountain air is always so healthful and invigorating, and the nice, dry ground is worth all the spring mattresses in Christendom for a bed. And then it never rains in California during the spring, summer and autumn months. Given a shot-gun, a rifle, fishing-tackle, blankets to sleep in, a frying-pan, coffee-pot and cups, a little flour, salt, pepper and a few sundries, and a bunch of matches, and, with two or three jolly companions—it is none the worse if the party is half made up of ladies, so that they are possessed of sense and know how to rough it and enjoy it—your "outfit" is complete.
"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay."
Better one month of camp life in the California mountains, than years on years of life at the fashionable "watering-places" and "summer resorts" of the East and Europe.
Ponce de Leon sought in vain for the Fountain of Youth in the swamps and forests of Florida—he was looking" in the wrong direction. I found the fountain years ago up in a quiet cañon, under the madrono trees, in the mountains of California; and every time I drink of its waters and camp by its side, Time, at my bidding, turns back in his flight, and I am only a boy again.
We lunched with such hearty satisfaction, and found the mountain air and scenery so much to our liking,
