OUR VALLEY. 7 



was pleasant to come to an opening in the brush 

 and find a band of gentle yellow-birds leaning 

 over the blossoms of the white forget-me-nots. 



There were a great many hummingbirds in the 

 chaparral, and at a certain point on the road I 

 was several times attacked by one of the pugna- 

 cious little warriors. I suppose we were tread- 

 ing too near his nest, though I was not keen-eyed 

 enough to find it. From high in the air, he would 

 come with a whirr, swooping down so close over 

 our heads that Canello started uneasily and 

 wanted to get out of the way. Down over our 

 heads, and then high up in the air, he would swing- 

 back and forth in an arc. One day he must have 

 shot at us half a dozen times, and another day, 

 over a spot in the brush near us, — probably 

 where the nest was, — he did the same thing a 

 dozen times in quick succession. 



In the midst of the brush corner were a num- 

 ber of pretty round oaks, in one of which the 

 warblers gathered. My favorite tree was in blos- 

 som and alive with buzzing insects, which may 

 have accounted for the presence of the warblers. 

 While I sat in the saddle watching the dainty 

 birds decked out in black and gold, Canello 

 rested his nose in the cleft of the tree, quite un- 

 mindful of the busy warblers that flitted about 

 the branches, darting up for insects or chasing 

 down by his nose after falling millers. 



One morning the ranchman's little girl rode 



