190 Life in the Open 



on San Miguel, where he still sleeps. But in point of 

 fact he said nothing and looked in stolid amazement at 



o 



the volubility and learning of the American whip of the 

 strange vehicle. 



Our road follows the beach through Carpenteria, 

 past graceful sand-dunes where rich grasses grow, where 

 the faint track of sea-birds is seen and the roar of the 

 surf breaks gently on the ear. Beyond lies the ocean, 

 as smooth as a disk of steel, with beds of kelp floating 

 lightly on its surface the resting place of the gull and 

 otter; and here the sail of a Chinese junk, the green 

 slopes of the Santa Ynez on the other side, and little 

 caftons reaching down to the shore, playing a veritable 

 game of hide-and-seek with the gleaming ocean. Now 

 an adobe ranges into view, with its barren, well-worn 

 door-yard, its ramada, and garlands of chillies, red and 

 glaring, its hairless dogs, and dark-eyed children who 

 have never seen a red and yellow coach and who stare 

 hard and long, silent at the melody of the horn. 



Down we plunge into the little arroyo, splashing 

 across the clear brook that, with its sparkling sands and 

 dashing trout, comes gurgling down under the arcades of 

 alder and willow ; up the bank with a rush, winding 

 through a grove of live oaks where the tap-tap of the 

 woodpecker echoes, and the gray squirrel flashes his fox- 

 like tail ; out into the fields again, on to the road lined 

 with yellow violets, bluebells, cream-cups, daisies, pop- 

 pies, bluettes, and other wild flowers that seem to reach 

 far up to the manzanita forests of the upper slopes. 



