! 



UNDER THE MAPLES 



their unwrinkled appearance, their long, flowing 

 lines. Time has taken the conceit all out of them. 



The annual rainfall in the Far West is only about 

 one third of what it is on the eastern side of the 

 continent. And the soil is curiously adapted to the 

 climate. Trees flourish and crops are grown there 

 under arid conditions that would kill every green 

 thing on the Atlantic seaboard. The soil is clay 

 tempered with a little sand, probably less than ten 

 per cent of it by weight is sand. I washed the clay 

 out of a large lump of it and found the sand a 

 curious heterogeneous mixture of small and large, 

 light and dark grains of all possible forms. The 

 soil does not bake as do our clay soils, and keeps 

 moist when ours would almost defy the plough. 

 Under cultivation it works up into a good tillable 

 condition. Its capacity to retain moisture is re- 

 markable, as if it were made for a scant rainfall. 

 As a crop-producing soil, it has virtues which I am 

 at a loss to account for. Root vegetables grown 

 here have a sweetness, and above all, a tenderness, 

 of which we know nothing in the East. Much sun- 

 shine in our climate makes root vegetables fibrous 

 and tough. 



I more than hah 9 believe that the wonderful 

 sweetness of the bird songs here, such as that of 

 the meadowlark, is more or less a matter of climate; 

 the quality of the sunshine seems to have affected 

 their vocal cords. The clear, piercing, shaft-like 



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