The air was no longer heavy with the perfume of roses and orange-blossoms, but came to their nostrils laden with the pungent odors of yerba santa and greasewood and sage.

Looking back, they could see the valley--marked off by its roads into many squares of green, and dotted here and there by small towns and cities--stretching away toward the western ocean until it was lost in a gray-blue haze out of which the distant San Gabriels, beyond Cajon Pass, lifted into the clear sky above, like the shore-line of dreamland rising out of a dream sea.
Before them, the San Bernardinos drew ever nearer and more intimate--silently inviting them; patiently, with a world old patience, bidding them come; in the majestic humbleness of their lofty spirit, offering themselves and the wealth of their teaching.
So they came, in the late afternoon, to that spot where the road for the first time crosses the alder and cottonwood bordered stream that, before it reaches the valley, is drawn from its natural course by the irrigation flumes and pipes.
The sound of the mountain waters leaping down their granite-bouldered way reached the men while they were yet some distance.

Croesus pointed his long ears forward in burro anticipation--his experience telling him that the day's work was about to end.

Czar was already ranging along the side of the creek--sending a colony of squirrels scampering to the tree tops, and a bevy of quail whirring to the chaparral in frightened flight.

The artist greeted the waters with a schoolboy shout of gladness.