A Summer in a Canyon | Page 9

as yet not the faintest whirr of wings can be heard. Looking
eastward or westward, you see either brown foot-hills, or, a little later

on, emerald slopes whose vines hang heavy with the half-ripened
grapes.
And hark! A silvery note strikes on the dewy stillness. It is the mission
bell ringing for morning mass; and if you look yonder you may see the
Franciscan friars going to prayers, with their loose grey gowns, their
girdle of rope, their sandaled feet, and their jingling rosaries; and
perhaps a Spanish senorita, with her trailing dress, and black shawl
loosely thrown over her head, from out the folds of which her two dark
eyes burn like gleaming fires. A solitary Mexican gallops by, with
gayly decorated saddle and heavily laden saddle-bags hanging from it;
perhaps he is taking home provisions to his wife and dark-eyed babies
who live up in a little dimple of the mountain side, almost hidden from
sight by the olive-trees. And then a patient, hardy little mustang lopes
along the street, bearing on his back three laughing boys, one behind
the other, on a morning ride into town from the mesa.
The mist had floated away from the old mission now, the sun has
climbed a little higher, and Bell has come away from the window in a
gentle mood.
'Oh, Polly, I don't see how anybody can be wicked in such a beautiful,
beautiful world.'
'Humph!' said Polly, dipping her curly head deep into the water-bowl,
and coming up looking like a little drowned kitten. 'When you want to
be hateful, you don't stop to think whether you're looking at a cactus or
a rosebush, do you?'
'Very true,' sighed Bell, quite silenced by this practical illustration.
'Now I'll try the effect of the landscape on my temper by dressing
Dicky, while he dances about the room and plays with his tan terrier.'
But it happened that Dicky was on his very best behaviour, and stood
as still as a signpost while being dressed. It is true he ate a couple of
matches and tumbled down-stairs twice before breakfast, so that after
that hurried meal Bell tied him to one of the verandah posts, that he
might not commit any act vicious enough to keep them at home. As he

had a huge pocket full of apricots he was in perfect good-humour, not
taking his confinement at all to heart, inasmuch as it commanded a full
view of the scene of action. His amiability was further increased,
moreover, by the possession of a bright new policeman's whistle, which
was carefully tied to his button-hole by a neat little silk cord, and which
his fond parents intended that he should blow if he chanced to fall into
danger during his rambles about the camp. We might as well state here,
however, that this precaution proved fruitless, for he blew it at all times
and seasons; and everybody became so hardened to its melodious
shriek that they paid no attention to it whatever,--history, or fable, thus
again repeating itself.
Mr. and Mrs. Noble had driven Margery and Phil into town from the
fruit ranch, and were waiting to see the party off.
Mrs. Oliver was to live in the Winship house during the absence of the
family, and was aiding them to do those numberless little things that
are always found undone at the last moment. She had given her
impetuous daughter a dozen fond embraces, smothering in each a
gentle warning, and stood now with Mrs. Winship at the gate, watching
the three girls, who had gone on to bid Elsie good-bye.
'I hope Pauline won't give you any trouble,' she said. 'She is so apt to be
too impulsive and thoughtless.'
'I shall enjoy her,' said sweet Aunt Truth, with that bright, cordial smile
of hers that was like a blessing. 'She has a very loving heart, and is
easily led. How pretty the girls look, and how different they are! Polly
is like a thistledown or a firefly, Margery like one of our home
Mayflowers, and I can't help thinking my Bell like a sunbeam.'
The girls did look very pretty; for their mothers had fashioned their
camping-dresses with much care and taste, taking great pains to make
them picturesque and appropriate to their summer life 'under the
greenwood tree.'
Over a plain full skirt of heavy crimson serge Bell wore a hunting
jacket and drapery of dark leaf-green, like a bit of forest against a

sunset. Her hair, which fell in a waving mass of burnished brightness to
her waist, was caught by a silver arrow, and crowned by a wide soft hat
of crimson felt encircled with a bird's breast.
Margery wore a soft grey flannel, the colour of a dove's throat, adorned
with rows upon rows of