ld time _Cascara sagrada_--the sacred bark. Up in
the canons, within the limit of the rains, it seeks rather a stony
slope, but in the dry valleys is not found away from water borders.

In all the valleys and along the desert edges of the west are
considerable areas of soil sickly with alkali-collecting pools, black
and evil-smelling like old blood. Very little grows hereabout but
thick-leaved pickle weed. Curiously enough, in this stiff mud, along
roadways where there is frequently a little leakage from canals, grows
the only western representative of the true heliotropes (_Heliotropium
curassavicum_). It has flowers of faded white, foliage of faded green,
resembling the "live-for-ever" of old gardens and graveyards, but even
less attractive. After so much schooling in the virtues of water-seeking
plants, one is not surprised to learn that its mucilaginous sap has
healing powers.

Last and inevitable resort of overflow waters is the tulares, great
wastes of reeds (_Juncus_) in sickly, slow streams. The reeds, called
tules, are ghostly pale in winter, in summer deep poisonous-looking
green, the waters thick and brown; the reed beds breaking into dingy
pools, clumps of rotting willows, narrow winding water lanes and sinking
paths. The tules grow inconceivably thick in places, standing man-high
above the water; cattle, no, not any fish nor fowl can penetrate them.
Old stalks succumb slowly; the bed soil is quagmire, settling with the
weight as it fills and fills. Too slowly for counting they raise little
islands from the bog and reclaim the land. The waters pushed out cut
deeper channels, gnaw off the edges of the solid earth.

The tulares are full of mystery and malaria. That is why we have meant
to explore them and have never done so. It must be a happy mystery. So
you would think to hear the redwinged blackbirds proclaim it clear March
mornings. Flocks of them, and every flock a myriad, shelter in the dry,
whispering stems. They make little arched runways deep into the heart of
the tule beds. Miles across the valley one hears the clamor of their
high, keen flutings in the mating weather.

Wild fowl, quacking hordes of them, nest in the tulares. Any day's
venture will raise from open shallows the great blue heron on his hollow
wings. Chill evenings the mallard drakes cry continually from the glassy
pools, the bittern's hollow boom rolls along the water paths. Strange
and far-flown fowl drop down against the saffron,