THE GUIDE TO NATURE 
182 
chimney like incense. Blue as the lu- 
pines of the mesa, it drifts down the 
slope to where, amid the silvery sage, 
the alfilerilla is opening in the first rays 
of the sun, tinting the ground as pink 
as the dawn lighted peaks of the Coast 
Range seen against the western sky. 
A little later the birds come in com- 
panies, gathering around the cabin for 
the crumbs thrown out for them the 
night before. There are diminutive na- 
tive sparrows of various kinds, all 
melodiously talkative, and finches, also 
of a diminutive kind, who hop about on 
the flower carpet all aglisten with ruddy 
streaks on breast and sides as if be- 
draggled with its purples. They fly up 
betimes on to the cabin roof to warble 
loud and long. A mocking bird perches 
on the clothesline pole and sings jubi- 
lantly, looking down on the merry flock 
indifferently for, being an insect eater, 
he has other breakfast resorts in view. 
It is my impression that the few birds 
this region supports have become thus 
partially domestic, gathering around 
the homes of man for food and protec- 
tion. 
The four-footed creatures are no- 
ticeably shy and silent. I have a few 
times seen, very early in the morning, 
the long ears of a jack rabbit appear 
above the sage as he nibbled the young 
leaves of the wild broom ; and some- 
times from my window see a native 
squirrel sitting motionless on a boulder 
with his absurdly abbreviated tail dis- 
creetly concealed as if he were ashamed 
of it. I have at times caught him in 
the act of going into his burrow which 
is near-by, close under a stone pile and 
concealed by tufts of wild oats. It is a 
round hole about six inches across 
with clean-cut edges and opening di- 
rectly downward. There is no dis- 
turbed earth to betray its locality nor 
any trail leading to it. Its occupant 
enters by the stone pile which he evi- 
dently reaches by a circuitous route 
that leaves no trace. 
Climbing the hill trails I sometimes 
come upon the nest of the wood rat, 
built of sticks and leaves and well up 
from the ground in the branches of a 
low tree or shrub, for by a strange re- 
versal of the rule the native rats live 
in trees and the squirrels in the ground. 
Little gray and brown lizards can be 
counted on wherever the sun shines 
brightest and the ground is hottest. 
They dart hither and thither as if bent 
upon nothing in particular but activity 
for its own sake. Among them the 
horned toads scamper excitedly, but 
with a slower and clumsier motion. One 
of them will sometimes linger on my 
doorstep to divert himself with queer 
little nods and winks. Taken in the 
hand they show no fear, submit to have 
their heads scratched, close their eyes 
and swell out their sides in the drollest 
toad fashion. I understand, however, 
that they are not toads but a species of 
lizard. 
I imagine that insects are rare at all 
seasons. At intervals a scorpion is 
found concealed under a flat stone. I 
have seen a few house flies, a few 
spiders, a few small butterflies, and 
have heard the song of crickets on espe- 
cially warm nights. During an excep- 
tionally warm spell in February I found 
a colony of large yellow wasps sunning 
themselves near the cabin. They ap- 
peared every day during the warmest 
hours, piling themselves up three layers 
deep on a flat stone. I inferred that 
they were hibernating beneath the 
stone. Of late I have not seen them 
there but have encountered them 
among the shrubs of the mesa, flying 
singly in a blundering and aimless man- 
ner as if still half asleep. 
I shall carry away from this moun- 
tain valley the memory of its sun 
flooded, color flooded days. I shall also 
carry the memory of its strange- 
ly silent nights. I have walked the 
mesa when it lay silvery in the moon- 
light and the mountain walls loomed 
large and dim and been conscious of a 
silence so profound and all pervading 
that, like the darkness of old, it could 
almost be felt. I have listened for a 
sound that the midnight watcher has 
been known to sometimes hear — the 
howl of a lone Avolf in some yawning 
canyon of the Sierra Madre, or the 
cry of some lingering coyote chasing 
rabbits on the Verdugo Hills. But the 
only nature voice that I could count 
upon with certainty was the muffled 
chirp of a solitary cricket in some shel- 
tered nook under a sun warmed stone ; 
and the only sound from the world of 
men, the scarcely distinguishable whis- 
tle of the Southern Pacific Midnight 
Express speeding through the San Fer- 
nando valley toward “The Land of 
Little Rain.” 
