Local Color 293 



from the mountains reaching out to the sea. 

 And so the vine sleeps, takes its midwinter siesta 

 when adjoining fields run riot with barley, and 

 the roadsides are lined with wild flowers; the 

 alfilaria is in bloom, the land is carpeted with 

 yellow that spreads over the slopes like a winged 

 host. Delicate stalked, cup-shaped flowers in 

 sky-blue and cream-white nod in the returning 

 wind; shooting stars, crucifers, and a host of 

 others take form and shape around the sleeping 

 vines, and California is in the grasp of winter; 

 but its snows are orange blossoms, its winter a 

 petalled delusion. 



Now the slopes of the mesa become tinted 

 with a golden glow. It seems to come with the 

 sun and steals over the slopes like magic, sweep- 

 ing on until at midday when, if the sun is bright, 

 as it nearly always is, the land is ablaze with 

 golden-yellow, the copa de oro (the cup of gold), 

 the poppy. As the sun drops, so fades this 

 benediction into night; each cup of gold closes, 

 locks in the belated bee or other insect until the 

 morrow, when in obedience to the sun god they 

 open again and paint the uplands, mesa slopes, 

 and valleys with tints of gold. If the vineyards 

 were left untouched, this floral horde would soon 

 take possession and it would again become a 

 field of the cloth of gold. But a third force 

 comes upon the stage. First came the picker, 

 then the pruner, and now teams of horses come 



