or "fawn lilies," and by these names they are more familiar to many.

Each great section has its own variety to be proud of. In California's hills in the northern Coast Range it is Egiganteum, most floriferous of its tribe, often with six or eight flowers on a scape a foot or more in height, and the individual creamy flowers two to four inches across.

The Sierra foothills have E. Hartwegii, whose several flowers each have a long slender stalk, and are cream colored with an orange center.

Wonderful in its distribution is E. revolutum, which inhabits a band only a few miles wide, but its southernmost limit is Mendocino county, near Califor

nia's coast line, and following closely the trend of the Pacific it reaches Vancouver's island, a thousand miles away. The fine flowers, usually solitary, are first white, then pinkish, then deep pink, and lastly a glowing deep rose as we trace it along its northward march.

In the high Cascades of the northwest, as well as farther east in the Blue mountains and the far Rockies, Egrandiflorum is found by the mountain climber, large of flower and yellower than the deepest yellow buttercup. It shares the highest Cascades with another as white as the snow which so tardily melting scarcely allows it to flower before again covering the peaks.

E had spent our first two summers in the mountains and had come to feel that a taste of out-door life once a year was a real necessity. In the third spring the baby came, so that he was now three months old. We liked fishing, bathing and boating, but a baby can't fish and swim and go boating.

"We shall have to get a papoose basket for him!"

My careless remark suggested a real possibility to my husband. The next day he came in with a little canvas hammock swinging from his shoulder. The hammock had just enough stiffening in it to hold it in shape, and a small piece of wood at the head and at the foot kept it from collapsing. No tiny ten-pounds of humanity should cheat us out of our vacation. In this hammock Baby was to sleep peacefully while we tramped about the country with him. A tarpaulin to shelter him from wind and cold completed the outfit, and we were off.

We had chosen Donner lake for our outing. We made our headquarters at a dairy farm where we could have plenty of good, rich milk for Baby, and where the fashionable boarder did not come.

The day after our arrival Baby's long clothes were all laid away carefully in our trunk and he was dressed in an outing gown of common-sense length.

It

was just the thing. Next we were very anxious to try the hammock, and so we rolled the baby into a little comforter and tucked him securely into his new nest. My husband slipped the straps over his head and Baby hung at his side like any other piece of baggage. We set out for a neighboring creek. I confess I felt a little self-conscious and timid as we passed a party of campers and

wondered whether they would suspect how precious our baggage was. They did. Before we were quite out of hearing, "It is a baby!" said one.

Over fallen logs, across swamps, through dense underbrush, up the steep side of a mountain, the baby was carried with the greatest ease; and, best of all, when we sat down to rest, we found that we could let him swing from some low limb of a tree, from the wall of a building, from a fence rail or from any other convenient peg. As the days passed passed our tramps grew longer and longer, and before we came home we covered miles of mountain roads and trails in this way.

But we were not always off on excursions. We spent a little time each day on the long veranda, and here again Baby must be disposed of. His father made a rough canvas cot for him, and put a canopy of fir boughs over his head. Here Baby lay and slept or kicked at his pleasure, sheltered from sun and wind.

One gets very good boating and bathing at Donner lake, and the Baby did not deprive us of these pleasures, either. It was an easy matter to hold him on my lap in the boat while we rowed across to the bathing beach on the other side of the lake. Then we put him down on the sand, hammock and all. It was capital-the hammock was such a perfect protection from sand and wind. The bathhouse was close to the water, and we could keep an eye on him from either place. Many times he slept or cooed happily while we had our swim.

Perhaps our fishing expeditions were rather unusual, too. To reach the Truckee river with its glorious trout pools we had to ride ten or fifteen miles and back; and ride in a two-wheeled cart, without back and without covering from the sun. Baby would sleep in his hammock most of the way. Once with a very early start we managed to go all the way up the Truckee river to Lake Tahoe, a drive of twenty miles and back.

Put a canopy of fir boughs over his head

But the crowning feat was our ascent of Castle Peak, a mountain thirteen thousand feet high. We heard of this peak only a few days before our return home. We talked it over and determined to scale it, Baby and all. Two young women had offered to act as guides. They jumped on their horses as nimbly as boys-they wore trousers and rode without saddles and with only a loose rope noose for a bridle. It was not so easy for us to mount our well-saddled horses. Especially my husband found it awkward at first, as he had to put me on my horse first and then mount his own with the Baby swinging at his side. The day looked threatening, but it was our last chance to make the trip and so we started off. A short ride up Donner Pass brought us to our trail, and we were soon winding up a long canyon and through the "Billy Mack" valley. Such a trail I had never dreamed of. First over rocks where the horses climbed as up rough steps, then through a marshy meadow where there was no trail, but where we had simply to break through the dense willow growth and be thankful that our eyes were not put out by

the long branches. Again a stretch of rocks where here and there we had to draw our feet up because the rocks reached up to our ankles. Then we had almost to lie down to escape the pine boughs, and before we had gone many miles, more than one knee or shin was bruised by dead limbs or low branches. In places we climbed over such large granite slabs that for the life of us we could not see how the horses kept from sliding back; but the Tomlinson stock was sure-footed, and this danger, too, was passed in safety. Through it all Baby was under his papa's arm, swinging in his hammock or clasped close as the occasion required, undisturbed by everything save our occasional halts. When we reached the head of the "Billy Mack" valley, we got our first commanding view. Donner Peak and Tinker Knob

were just opposite us. The Baby was scarcely conscious that his father stopped to "snap" the scene, before we were on our way again. The trail (if trail it could be called, for we had often to make our own trail) soon brought us to Frog lake, where we stopped for lunch.

The hardest part of the trip was still ahead of us. We left all superfluous baggage at this point, and pushed on. The pines and firs gave way to hemlocks. We passed patches of snow here and there. At the lower edge of one of these snow beds we filled a bottle with water so that we might have it in case any of us should become faint in the final climb. Up, up, up, higher and higher, along the ridge or back of Castle mountain. Suddenly upon the last flat we came in sight of the "Castle." As we stopped to take a picture, the wind blew terrifically through the gap and chilled us to the marrow. We were glad to be in motion again. Finally we came to the end of the horse trail. We tied our horses to the last clump of trees, and began to ascend the "Castle" on foot. The Castle is a huge mass of conglomerate rock, entirely barren, and perhaps a thousand feet in height. The weather has worn it into all sorts of odd and fantastic shapes. A tower on the summit is about a hundred feet high. There are many large ravines and gorges, some of them partly filled up with loose earth and gravel. Everywhere the harder rocks which have resisted the elements jut out

of the mass.

In most places these give

a fairly good footing. We had first to go down into a deep gorge and then up. Our guides reminded us how dangerous it is to loosen rocks, but in spite of us a rock did occasionally break away, and we could hear it clattering down, down, hundreds of feet below. The earth that had gathered in the clefts and ravines was almost too loose to give a footing. One of our guides, whom we had nicknamed "Corduroy," from the material of her trousers, scampered ahead as nimbly as a goat. On this loose earth she occasionally slid down ten or twelve feet, but her footing was never lost-she was up again and on, and the rest of us followed as best we could. My husband still had the Baby at his side, and I often needed his help, too. When my footing seemed to be giving way under me I would lie down upon my face and cling to his hand or foot. With his help I managed to crawl along until I found courage enough to go on again. How welcome was an occasional tuft of grass that had somehow strayed into this barren region. It made one step at least easier. I discovered how wise our guides had been to wear trousers, for I found