22 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



of wandering moonbeam through the tracery of the 

 roof, were the sort of experience one loves to repeat 

 in memory. 



In a narrow gateway of the upper canon stands 

 a single stately palm, framed by tall cliffs of Egyp- 

 tian red. Its solitariness, spiry grace, and statuesque 

 pose give it special individuality, and sentimentally 

 I allowed myself to name it "La Reina del Canon." 



Evenings by the camp-fire in the cave were en- 

 livened by visitors, kangaroo-mice, skunks, and 

 tarantulas, who adopted me without reserve into 

 the ancient order of cave-dwellers. The mice were 

 charming companions, eating beans and hardtack 

 with me off our common plate, and only occasionally 

 needing an admonitory rap with the spoon. By day, 

 quail were frequent callers, aligning themselves on 

 a shelving rock overhead to criticise my housekeep- 

 ing: and once a lynx halted bashfully when ten 

 yards from the breakfast- table. Bighorn tracks were 

 often fresh on the cactus mesa beyond the creek, 

 and my regular morning alarum was the practising 

 of chromatic scales by a caiion-wren midway up the 



cliff. 



Andreas Canon had become endeared to me by 

 these and other social ties when, about noon one 

 Saturday, a gentle but persistent rain began — one 

 of the occasions one recognizes as meant for the 

 cooking of beans. I charged my biggest pot and 

 passed the afternoon in holding the fire at that 

 scientific minimum that the "free-holy "^ justly de- 



1 The red or pink Mexican bean, frijol in Spanish, pronounced 

 free-hole' or, affectionately, as above. 



