IX. 



THE BIG SYCAMORE. 



BEFORE going home from my morning sessions 

 with the little lover and other feathered friends, 

 I often took a gallop at the foot of the hills to 

 visit a gigantic old tree, the king of the valley. 

 One such ride is especially marked in my mem- 

 ory. It was on one of California's most perfect 

 mornings. When the sun had risen over the val- 

 ley, the fog dissolved before it, sinking away until 

 only small white clouds were left in the tender 

 blue of the notches between the red hills ; while 

 the bared vault ^ overhead had that pure, deep, 

 satisfying color peculiar to fog-cleared skies ; and 

 the cool fresh air was full of exhilaration. It put 

 Mountain Billy so in tune with the morning that, 

 when I chirrupped to him, shaking the reins on 

 his neck, he quickly broke into a lope and his 

 ringing hoofs beat time to my song as we sped 

 down the valley, past vineyards and orchards and 

 yellow fields of ripening grain. The free swift 

 motion was a delight in itself, and after days and 

 weeks given to the details of nest-making, shut 

 away from the world in our little remote valley 

 at the foot of the mountains, now, when we came 



