AN UNSUCCESSFUL HUNT 



birds of the day, their voices were so continually 

 in my ears. Three times, at least, I heard what 

 should have been a brand-new bird, and each time 

 the stranger turned out to be a plain tit rehears- 

 ing another tune. At the best he is only an in- 

 different singer, but his versatility is remarkable. 

 He is one of the wise ones who make the most 

 of a small gift. A good example for the rest of 

 us. Robins were in the air, in the trees, and 

 (especially) in the Christmas-berry bushes. Now 

 and then, for some reason, they would set up a 

 chorus of cackles, and anon a hundred or more 

 would go past me on the wing. 



One of the sights here (at Paso Robles, I mean) 

 is the leafless oaks, their drooping branches 

 heavily draped with gray lichen. The gray- 

 bearded oaks, they might be called. From my 

 elevated position I could see broad hillsides loosely 

 sprinkled with them. And one of the sights of 

 this particular walk was a great display of man- 

 zanita bushes, now in full flower and vocal with 

 bees : the blossoms (of this kind of manzanita) 

 white, the foliage whitish, and the bark of the 

 richest mahogany-red. The bush — which is 

 sometimes almost a tree — is one of the curiosi- 

 ties, not to say one of the glories, of California. 

 Just at noon my fancy was taken with the 

 look of a solitary ranch lying on a long sunny 

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