Chapter I 



Across Country with Greyhounds 



THE first rain had come. The mountains were 

 smiling at the distant sea, the air was clear 

 as crystal, and had a rich vibrant quality. The 

 long, feathery lines of white clouds which marked the 

 time of rain had disappeared. No more the dust spout 

 sailed swaggering down along the Puente Hills ; instead, 

 processions of geese and cranes flew along the high 

 Sierras, headed to the south. The grey hills were 

 melting into other and deeper tints, and the seeds of 

 alfileria, that had formed a grey mat almost everywhere, 

 were twisting, boring into the ground, and painting the 

 hills, lowlands, and mesa in emerald hues. There was a 

 crispness to the air; every tree and bush was washed 

 clean ; the groves of the tall plume-like eucalyptus seemed 

 nearer and greener, and along the highways vivid pink 

 mattings were growing, telling that a marvellous change 

 was imminent. In a word, it was near Christmas time 

 in Southern California, and uncompromising winter, 

 with its roses, its fields of wild flowers, was setting in. 



3 



