On the top of the Santa Cruz mountains, where we stopped to water the horses, there is a little house, and while we waited there, out from the house came a man whose face was all scarred and seamed. After we drove away, the stage-driver told us that the man was a hunter, known as "Mountain Charley," and that his scars were made by a grisly-bear.
Well, we have now been at Santa Cruz a week, and I have had a good time. Every morning we go in bathing. It is a funny sight to see everybody racing down into the waves, and catching hold of a big rope that is stretched from the shore a good distance into the water. The undertow here is so strong, that it is not safe to venture away from the rope.
Yesterday we all went to Moore's Beach to have a "clam-bake." We rode in a big wagon; and the first thing we did, when we got to the beach, was to pull off our shoes and stockings, and wade in the water. Papa and Uncle John dug the clams; while the rest of us ran about hunting for sea-urchins and shells.

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