Fox-Hunting in California 67 



the cactus, half covering the brilliant, pinkish yellow 

 flowers, and in the washes down by Sunny Slope, and in 

 the open, yellow gourds lie ripening in the sun. 



It is late in September ; a yellow diaphanous haze 

 fills the drowsy air, and the colours of canon and 

 mountain are intensified. The front range is a light, 

 hazy blue. Over the divide the second range takes on 

 a deeper tone, while the tip of some back and distant 

 peak is purple ; the entire range a maze of delicate 

 tints, as though a great tourmalin lay glistening in 

 the sun. 



The cork oaks and pines pipe fairy music in the 

 drowsy air and the canon streams run low, here and 

 there dry or just moist enough to show the track of 

 some dainty footprint, quail, wood-rat, or snail. 



It is at this time, the period of dolce far niente in 

 Southern California, that the thoughts of hunters turn 

 to game. There has been no rain since May, per- 

 chance, but suddenly at night comes a gentle fall. 

 The great, white cloud mountains from the desert have 

 been blown over into the valleys of delight, and the 

 first rain has fallen. It is out of season, not normal, 

 and has no significance. Hardly a seed responds, and 

 it is just sufficient to lay the dust, to soften the sand in 

 the arroyos and canons, just enough to hold the scent of 

 the little gray and red fox as he steals along the washes 

 in search of quail or rabbit. 



This explains your presence in the arroyo early 

 in the morning, while the sun is climbing over the 



