Elysian Fields 155 
sadly cultivated and no more than grain fields. 
Along the base of the hills were azure and 
purple pentstemons, and far up the Matilija 
Cafion extended patches of red buglers, but 
the great Matilija poppy was not to be seen. 
It has retreated into the wilderness before the 
advance of the botanising tourist. 
One intimation of a past glory there was, for 
the black mustard was in its prime. Over 
Rincon Mountain and the low hills of the 
Cashitas, it lay like rifts of sunlight. A fine 
mist filled the air, yet one would constantly 
look across to some slope or hillock and fancy 
that the sun was shining there—so complete 
was the illusion—until a second glance re- 
vealed merely vast fields of mustard. Where 
the road lies through such a field the air is 
heavily perfumed, while one is surrounded by 
a veritable golden glory. The infinite hosts 
of blossoms seem fairly to twinkle and almost 
to be self-effulgent. Whether the mustard 
is the least of all seeds or not, it certainly 
becomes almost a tree here and the fowls 
of the air—the blackbirds—alight in its 
branches. 
As one rides along, the black mustard is as 
high as the horse’s head and often much 
higher. Its tall single stem puts out many 
