UNDER THE APPLE-TREES 



one season, then another in front of you, — Spring, 

 Summer, Autumn, Winter. Now in March I see 

 January on Mt. San Antonio, with wraiths of snow 

 blowing over his white summit against the blue sky. 

 In the valley I see them harvesting oranges and 

 planting their gardens. The camphor-trees are shed- 

 ding their leaves, and the eucalyptus and other trees 

 are blooming. The oak-trees are shaking out their 

 catkins and resound with the hum of bees. I see calla 

 lUies in bloom four feet high, and wild flowers an 

 inch high just opening. Along the road the wild 

 sunflowers and other tall plants are in bloom, as in 

 August in the Atlantic States. June is in the knee- 

 high grass and oats and blooming white clover, and 

 April in the bursting apple-tree buds and pinkpeach- 

 and almond-trees, — yes, and in the new furrow and 

 the early planting, — autumn in the golden orange- 

 orchards, and the red berries of the pepper-trees, and 

 the black berries of the camphor-trees. The birds 

 are nesting, the shad are running, and swallows are 

 in the air, midsummer butterflies dance by, and 

 house-flies tease you indoors. I see and hear the 

 white-crowned sparrow that at home I see in May. 

 Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, I say, all 

 nudge you, and claim your attention at once. 



During the last ten days of March there were 

 heavy rains with four feet of snow in the near-by 

 mountains. The air was like cold spring-water — 

 full of just melted frost. 



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