Chapter VI 



A Rainbow in the Sierra Madre 



IN February or March the disciple of Walton, in 

 Southern California, begins to look over his flies 

 and appropriate the big worms which come to 

 the surface at this time in the gardens and ranches, as 

 though to challenge fate. 



The land is still in the grasp of winter ; the high 

 peaks of the Sierra Madre, San Jacinto, and San Ber- 

 nardino are white with snow ; and over the orange 

 trees in my garden, where the birds fill the air with 

 melody, I see a white, fluffy, zephyr-like cloud hovering 

 like a bird on San Antonio ; yet not a cloud, but snow 

 rolling up the north slope, to be whirled and tossed into 

 the air, a titanic wraith, that falls and is dissipated by 

 the soft airs that float upward from the valleys that 

 reach away to the distant sea. 



There has been a snow-storm in the San Gabriel. 

 The walks in the garden are white, and the strong west 

 wind plays over it, robbing the violets of perfume. But 

 the snowflakes are the petals of orange blossoms, that 



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