he hills, and many a flower lingers in the timber
or canons long after its friends on the open hills or plains
have faded away. In the canons and timber are also many flowers
that are not found in the open ground, and as late as the
middle of September, only twenty miles from the sea, and at an
elevation of but fifteen hundred feet, I have gathered bouquets
that would attract immediate attention anywhere. The whole land
abounds with flowers both curious and lovely; but those only
have been mentioned which force themselves upon one's
attention. Where the sheep have not ruined all beauty, and the
rains have been sufficient, they take as full possession of the
land as the daisy and wild carrot do of some Eastern meadows.
There are thousands of others, which it would be a hopeless
task to enumerate, which are even more numerous than most of
the favorite wild flowers are in the East, yet they are not
abundant enough to give character to the country. For instance,
there is a great larkspur, six feet high, with a score of
branching arms, all studded with spurred flowers of such
brilliant red that it looks like a fountain of strontium fire;
but you will not see it every time you turn around. A tall lily
grows in the same way, with a hundred golden flowers shining on
its many arms, but it must be sought in certain places. So the
tiger-lily and the columbine must be sought in the mountains,
the rose and sweetbrier on low ground, the night-shades and the
helianthus in the timbered canons and gulches.

Delicacy and brilliancy characterize nearly all the California
flowers, and nearly all are so strange, so different from the
other members of their families, that they would be an ornament
to any greenhouse. The alfileria, for instance, is the richest
and strongest fodder in the world. It is the main-stay of the
stock-grower, and when raked up after drying makes excellent
hay; yet it is a geranium, delicate and pretty, when not too
rank.

But suddenly the full blaze of color is gone, and the summer is
at hand. Brown tints begin to creep over the plains; the wild
oats no longer ripple in silvery waves beneath the sun and
wind; and the foxtail, that shone so brightly green along the
hill-side, takes on a golden hue. The light lavender tint of
the