The Trout Streams of the Missions 141 



of living silver, four or five feet. Reaching away 

 from the little river in January, if the rains have 

 come early, is a carpet of wild flowers that in 

 its variety and beauty challenges comparison. 



It seems profanation to wade through and 

 over such a Field of the Cloth of Gold, as here 

 the flowers run riot, and have driven out all 

 invaders and the valley is brilliant vivid yellow. 

 Far beyond the painter's brush appears and the 

 yellow yields to red, as though a battle, not of 

 roses but of colors, was waged afield, and this 

 deepening tint races away, a gorgeous weave, to 

 blend with white, blue, pink, and purple of every 

 tint and shade. 



The gentle wind coming in over the sand dunes 

 strikes the fields of flowers, and yellow butter- 

 flies rise and go drifting on. The wind bends 

 the grain, and rivers of green in various tints 

 ripple and flow across its surface, cat's-paws 

 of tint, while here and there the wild oat awns 

 jangle and the faint rustling music comes down 

 the wind. 



Casting in the little laguna behind the sand 

 dunes the rod bends, and up into the air goes 

 a salmon-trout or steelhead, flinging the crystal 

 spray from side to side, tumbling down to send 

 the ripples in every direction to the magic 

 rhapsody of the reel. The whole situation has 

 changed on the instant. Then, flowers, colors of 

 the infinite filled the eye ; now, guerre a outrance, 



