CHAPTER XVII 



LOCAL COLOR 



IT was warm, yes, hot, along the Camino Real 

 from San Diego to Monterey, which meant 

 September. The summer wind had gone down; 

 a drowsy something filled the air; the tender- 

 foot told you it was dust, but it was not; it 

 was a golden haze that settled over hill, valley, 

 mesa, and arroyo, lending new beauties to the 

 dry burnt-umber landscape. 



You might know it was September by the 

 mustard that, like cloth of gold, filled the little 

 valleys and in midday suggested the copa de 

 oro to come in later days, or by the long sinuous 

 lines of cranes and geese that were flying along 

 the slopes of the Sierra Madre, a mile above 

 the sea. The tenderfoot, who is putting ice in 

 his Zinfandel out under the ramada, does not 

 see them, but Seiior Gonzales sights them three 

 miles away through his half-closed eyes, and 

 holding his glass high, that a vagrant beam of 

 sunlight that has stolen into the adobe inn may 

 pierce its ruby heart, mutters "Mucho bueno." 



The summer wind had dropped, you might 

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