“…Seven thousand miles from California! What a long way to come, to camp out and to fish, and to invite my soul in strange environment! But it was worth the twenty-six days of continuous travel to get there…. The very strangeness eluded me. The low sound of the surf had a different note… Nevertheless, I was not slow to appreciate the beauty of the silver-edged clouds and the glory of the golden blaze behind the purple ranges. Faint streaks of rays of blue, fan-shaped, spread to the zenith. Channels of green water meandered everywhere, and islands on all sides took on the hues of the changing sunset…. I saw several sailing hawks, some white gulls, and a great white-winged gannet. Then I heard an exquisite bird song, but could not locate the bird. The song seemed to be a combination of mocking bird melody, song sparrow and the sweet wild plaintive note of the canyon swift. Presently I discovered that I was listening to more than one bird, all singing the same beautiful song. Larks! I knew it before I looked up. After a while I located three specks in the sky. One was floating down, wings spread, without an effort, like a feather. Down, down, he floated faster and faster, bursting his throat all the while, until he dropped like a plummet to the ground, where his song ended. The others circled round higher and higher singing riotously, until they had attained a certain height; then they poised, and began to waft downward, light as wisps of thistle-down on the air… What gentle soft music! It was elevating and I was reminded of Shakespeare's sonnet: ‘Hark! Hark! The lark at heaven's gate sings.’ They sang until after dark; and in the grey dawn, at four o'clock, they awoke me from sound slumber. I knew then I had found a name for this strange new camp. Camps of the Larks!”