ily linen. The stream has long since disappeared, as also the remnant of the race that washed in its waters--one through an unaccountable law of nature, the other through the rapacious greed and oppression of the Anglo-Saxon race.
   Owing to the abundance of pure, fresh water found on the Sausalito Rancho it was shipped to Yerba Buena and the Presidio. The water was conducted by spouts to the beach,



thence into a tank on a scow, which conveyed it across the Bay. This mode of supplying San Francisco with water lasted for some time, until with the increase of population this primitive means was abandoned.
   A tule boat operated by Indians regularly crossed the Bay for the mail, many of the Indians evincing considerable skill in navigation under the tutelage of their able master.
   Standing beside a heap of stones--historic stones because



the sole remnant of this abode of the past--my glance wandered to the blue water of the Bay which laps the edge of the glen and stretches over to the distant hills which descend in gentle undulations to this beautiful shimmering sheet of blue. And this Bay, too, speaks of the second settler of Marin, for it bears his name.
   As my glance now fell on the enchanting little glen with its tangled woodland and steep declivities, and then to the fair stretches of land that lay beyond, a sigh of sadness escaped from me unawares. I thought how all this lovely region, this Rancho Sausalito, comprising 19,500 acres, as varied and beautiful as ever nature put her seal to, this land, which rightfully belonged to Richardson and his descendants, had been appropriated by others through pretext of law and what not, until the heirs of the pioneer can call but a small build-



ing lot their own. Thus we ever find that "man's inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn."
   But the son of the renowned Captain, a hale, hearty old gentleman, with a pleasant Spanish accent, speaks with calm equanimity of their loss of fortune, showing not a vestige of ill-will toward the transgressors, and practicing in full the true Christian spirit so often lauded but rarely seen.



   "Sometimes, it is true, it makes me sad," he once replied, in answer to my queries, "to think of all the Rancho being gone, As I boy I used to ride, chasing the cattle, climbing the steep mountain sides followed by our vaqueros.... and how wild it was then and so beautiful--so beautiful!" Thus the heir to all these acres would extol their beauty without more reproach than that it sometimes made him sad.
   Ascending the glen by a winding country road, shadowed by trees and shrubs, it was not long before we reached it small, low shingled cottage nestled deep in the shade of tall bays



and buckeyes. A neat sign over the door bearing the inscription "O'Connell Glen," met our gaze, and then we knew that this little cottage, with its wealth of solitude and humble exterior, was the former home of the poet, Daniel O'Connell. For it was in this rural retreat that O'Connell, with his family, spent many busy, imaginative years.
   A bohemian of the truest kind, he delighted in what Marin had to offer. With a stout stick, and accompanied by his daughters, he would often be seen sallying forth from his rustic

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©1999, 2000, 2001 for MARDOS Collection, T&C Miller