THE BIG SYCAMORE. 121 



Screened by the branches, I listened quite un- 

 mindful of my work till my reverie was inter- 

 rupted by the man's giving a harsh cry to his 

 mules. It was only an aside, however, for he 

 dropped back into his song in the same rich 

 sympathetic voice. 



In riding out from the tree on my way home, 

 I saw that he was mowing just where the snake 

 had been, and warned him to be careful lest the 

 horses get bitten. At the word rattlesnake his 

 blue eyes dilated, and he assured me that he 

 would be on his guard. Seeing my glasses and 

 note-book, he asked if I were studying birds. 

 When told that I was, from his seat on the 

 mowing-machine he took off his hat and bowed 

 with the air of a lord, saying in broken English, 

 "I am pleased to meet you! " a pleasant trib- 

 ute to the profession. A few days later, on 

 meeting him, he asked if I had found the rattle- 

 snake he had killed it under the sycamore and 

 hung it on a branch for me to see. 



As the memory of my morning rides down to 

 the sycamore brings to mind the wonderful fresh- 

 ness of California's fog-cleared skies, so my sun- 

 set rides home from the great tree recall the 

 peacefulness of the quiet valley at twilight. One 

 sunset stands out with peculiar distinctness. As 

 Mountain Billy turned from the sycamore marsh 

 its leaning blades gleamed in the evening light, 

 and the sun warmed the sides of the line of buff 



