The tree-shadows were painted pools of lupin, azure
lakes; or they were purple seas of larkspur. Mountain-roses and wild lilac
tangled in a maze of pink and white and gold. Bear-clover crowned the bald
gray heads of rocks, or shone out like star-white strawberry blossoms from
under a thicket of deer-bush. Wild asters burned rosily, like small
Catherine wheels half extinguished. Small, mottled tiger lilies blazed
among the pale young fronds of growing bracken: the air was scented with
wild roses and the spicy fragrance of manzanita trees--the breath of
California. But loveliest and strangest of all things were the gardens
chosen for their own by the mariposa lilies. The trembling winged flowers
hovered airily just above the earth, like a flock of alighting
butterflies; and overhead poised real butterflies, of the self-same
delicate tints hardly strong enough to be named as colours; silvery white,
faint lilac, and a sunrise-hint of rose. Ground butterflies and air
butterflies seemed kin to one another, those rooted to the ground longing
for wings, those to whom earth offered no permanent foothold envying
their half-sister's rest and peace.
Here in the mountains it was spring, though down below in the valleys full
summer had come; and toward evening Angela and Nick descended once again
to the summer world.
Pages:
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360