THE SANTA CRUZ MOUNTAINS 



I had begged the favor of two or three the day 

 before, to piece out the slender luncheon I had 

 brought along. So I went in, and we chatted 

 awhile, he most cheerfully, as proud of Califor- 

 nia and "these mountains" as if he had been 

 born to their inheritance. I was starting home- 

 ward in a few days, I remarked. 



"Oh, then you don't like this country," he 

 said, in a tone of mingled surprise and sorrow. 



Yes, indeed, I assured him ; I liked it much ; 

 oh, very much ; but then, I had not come here 

 with any idea of remaining. He was comforted, 

 I thought, and we parted on the best of terms. 



" I am French, you know," he said ; and I an- 

 swered, "Yes." He had been jabbering in that 

 tongue with a pretty young woman (Mary, he 

 called her) who had dropped in for a minute or 

 two on her way to the village. 



After this I had interviews with sundry birds 

 and flowers, but there is no space in which to 

 tell of them; and, specialist though I am, espe- 

 cially when in new places, I shall remember long- 

 est, it may be, a Frenchman, a Swede, and a man 

 of unknown race with whom I have to-day passed 

 kindly words among "these mountains." For, 

 after all, a man, if he be halfway decent and rea- 

 sonable, is of more value than many sparrows. 



