THE LITTLE LOVER. 21 



I went down early in March, to be sure to be in 

 time for the nesting season ; but spring was so late 

 that by the last of April hardly a nest had been 

 built, and it seemed as if the birds were never 

 coming back. The weather was gloomy and the 

 prospect for the spring's work looked discouraging, 

 when one morning I rode over to the line of oaks 

 and sycamores at the mouth of Ughland canyon 

 I had not visited before. In this dry, treeless 

 region of southern California only a little water 

 is needed to cover the bare valley bottoms with 

 verdure. The rushing streams that flow down 

 the canyons after the winter rains fill their mouths 

 with rich groves of brush, oaks and sycamores ; 

 while lines of trees border the streams as far as 

 they extend down the valleys. Before the streams 

 go far, the thirsty soil drinks them up, leaving 

 only dry beds of sand bordered by trees, until the 

 rains of the following winter. In April, the water 

 in this particular canyon mouth had already dis- 

 appeared, and the wide sand bed under the trees 

 alone remained to tell of the short-lived stream. 

 But the resulting verdure was enough to attract 

 the birds. Apparently a party of travelers had 

 just arrived. The brush and trees were full of 

 song ■ — yellowbirds, linnets, che winks, cloves, 

 wrens, and, best of all, a song sparrow, — bless his 

 heart ! — singing as if he were on a bush in New 

 York state. It was more cheering than anything 

 I had heard in California. 



