68 A-BIRDING ON A BRONCO. 



The next morning, in riding by, I heard weak 

 voices from the woodpecker mansion. If young 

 were to be fed, I must be on hand. Such luxu- 

 rious observing! Riding Mountain Billy out 

 into the meadow, I dismounted, and settled my- 

 self comfortably against a haycock with the bridle 

 over my arm. It was a beautiful quiet morning. 

 The night fog had melted back and the moun- 

 tains stood out in relief against a sky of pare 

 deep blue. The line of sycamores opposite us 

 were green and still against the blue ; the morn- 

 ing sun lighting their white trunks and frame- 

 work. The songs of birds filled the air, and the 

 straw-colored field dotted with haycocks lay sun- 

 ning under the quiet sky. In the East we are 

 accustomed to speak of " the peace of evening," 

 but in southern California in spring there is a 

 peculiar interval of warmth and rest, a langorous 

 pause in the growth of the morning, between the 

 disappearance of the night fog and the coming of 

 the cool trade wind, when the southern sun shines 

 full into the little valleys and the peace of the 

 morning is so deep and serene that the labor of 

 the day seems done. Nature appears to be slum- 

 bering. She is aroused slowly and gently by the 

 soft breaths that come in from the Pacific. On 

 this day I watched the awakening. Up to this 

 time not a grass blade had stirred, but while I 

 dreamed a brown leaf went whirling to the ground, 

 the stray stalks of oats left from the mowing be- 



