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 
lilies 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 pink peach- 
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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