20 Life in the Open 



The hills grow higher. Here they are undermined, 

 the talus partly covered by masses of wild oat whose 

 surface ripples in catspaws in changing tints of green. 

 Along the low left bank are lavender flashes among the 

 rocks, telling of the wild pea, while the yellow glow of 

 the primrose and the blue of the larkspur are caught 

 against the green of the chaparral. Soon the arroyo 

 widens, and live oaks are seen in a little basin. The 

 sullen roar of the city is still heard, but the sky is bright, 

 the sweet song of birds fills the air. Surely it is not 

 February along this verdant arroyo ? You may climb 

 the hill and look out over distant fields of rippling grain 

 and a marvellous coat of green that robes the land from 

 mountains to the sea. Winter it is, fair and uncompro- 

 mising, permitting flowers, soft air, and clear skies. 

 Not the winter of the tropics, hot and enervating, but 

 a winter of content, crisp, with just a soup9on of 

 frost in the early morning to make the scent good and 

 clear. 



The scent, ah ! that is what you are after. Are you 

 not on horseback ? and there, standing under the oaks, 



is Don A , with his famous foxhounds, Melody, 



Music, and others, and coming down the road are other 

 hunters and the hounds of the Valley Hunt. 



The meet is at the cienaga, and it is proposed to 

 work the green hills to the east and south for the lynx, 

 common game in Southern California, game that uses 

 the big arroyo and washes as highways from the mount- 

 ains. All the hunters are mounted, and Don A 



