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Beyond the presidio is Pacific Grove, a resort town nearly as large as Monterey-just why "Pacific Grove" is not clear, for there are not many trees in the town. It was founded in 1869 as a camp-meeting ground and is still famous as a headquarters for religious societies. From here one may take a glass-bottomed boat to view the "marine gardens," which are said to surpass those at Avalon.

Beyond Pacific Grove we passed through a dense pine forest-this is the Pacific Grove, perhaps-and coming into the open, we followed white sand dunes for some distance along the sea. A sign, "Moss Beach," called for an immediate halt and the ladies found treasures untold in the strange, brilliantly colored bits of moss and sea-weed washed ashore here in unlimited quantities. It is a wild, boulder-strewn bit of beach, damp with spray and resonant with the swish of the waves among the rocks. Beyond here the road continues through dunes, brilliant in places with pink and yellow sand-flowers. We passed Point Joe, Restless Sea-where two opposing currents wrestle in an eternal maelstrom-Bird Rocks, and Seal Rocks-the latter the home of the largest sea-lion colony on the coast. The sea was glorious beyond description; perhaps the same is true of any sunny day at Monterey, and nearly all days at Monterey are sunny. It showed all tones of blue, from solid indigo to pale sapphire, with a strip of light emerald near the shore, edged by the long, white breakers chafing on the beach. Here and there, at some distance from the shore, the deep-blue expanse was broken by patches of royal purple-an effect produced by the floating kelp. A clear azure sky bent down to the wide circle of the horizon, with an occasional white sail or steamer to break the sweep of one's vision over the waste of shining water. It is not strange that Stevenson, who had seen and written so much of the sea, should say of such a scene, "No other coast have I enjoyed so much in all weather-such a spectacle of ocean's greatness, such beauty of changing color, and so much thunder in the sound-as at Monterey."

The climax of the seventeen-mile drive is Cypress Point, with its weird old trees. Description and picture are weak to give any true conception of these fantastic, wind-blown monsters. It is, indeed, as Stevenson wrote-and who was able to judge of such things better than he?-"No words can give any idea of the contortions of their growth; they might figure without a change in the nether hell as Dante pictured it." And yet, with all their suggestion of the infernal regions, there is much of beauty and charm in their very deformity. There is about them a certain strength and ruggedness, born of their age-long defiance to the wild northwestern winds, that is alike an admonition and an inspiration to the beholder. If you would get my idea, select one of these strange trees standing by itself in solemn majesty on some rocky headland-as shown in Mr. Moran's splendid picture-and note how its very form and attitude breathe defiance to the forces that would beat it down and destroy it. Or take another which lies almost prone on the brown earth, its monstrous arms writhing in a thousand contortions, yet its expanse of moss-green foliage rising but little higher than your head, and note how it has stooped to conquer these same adverse elements.

Among the most familiar objects of the Point is the "Ostrich," two cypresses growing together so as to give from certain viewpoints a striking resemblance to a giant bird of that species. It is not the forced resemblance of so many natural objects to fancied likenesses, but is apparent to everyone at once. The traveler of to-day, however, will look in vain for this curious natural freak; it was swept away with hundreds of other ancient pines and cypresses in the violent hurricane of April 1917.

At the extremity of the Point, the road turns and enters a second grove of cypresses which, being farther removed from the storm and stress of the sea, are more symmetrical, though all of them have, to some extent, the same wind-swept appearance. Their branches overarched the fine road and through their trunks on our right flashed the bright expanse of Carmel Bay. Our motor was throttled to its slowest pace as we passed through the marvelous scenes and there were many stops for photographs of picturesque bits that struck our fancy.

The cypresses were superseded by pines when we came into the projected town of Pebble Beach, which is being vigorously exploited by a promotion company-a rival, we suppose, to Pacific Grove, which lies directly opposite on the peninsula. In the center of the tract is Pebble Beach Lodge, a huge rustic structure of pine logs from the surrounding forest, which serves as an assembly hall and club house for the guests of the Del Monte. A short distance beyond Pebble Beach the drive swings across the peninsula and returns to the Hotel Del Monte.

In addition to the route following the coast-the seventeen-mile drive proper, which I have just described-there is a network of boulevards in the interior swinging around the low hills in easy curves and grades. A moderate-powered car can cover the entire system on high gear, even to Corona Del Monte, the highest point of the peninsula, which takes one nearly nine hundred feet above the sea and affords a far-reaching outlook in all directions. The dark blue bay of Monterey, the white crescent of the beach, the drives, the pine and cypress groves, the red roofs of the town, and the Hotel Del Monte near by, half hidden in the dense green of the forest surrounding it, make a lovely and never-to-be-forgotten picture. The mountain to the east is Fremont Peak, forty miles away-a name that reminds us how much the Pathfinder figured in the old California of which Monterey is so typical.