THE GREAT MIRACLE
To enjoy and appreciate to its fullest possibilities a Californian
spring, let me choose, for one, to live first through a Californian
summer. Then I can see the great miracle with my own eyes, watch it in
its tiniest and swiftest workings, and follow it with loving wonder.
Now those plains and slopes yonder lay bare and brown for many months:
everything on them was scorched up and covered with thickening dust.
The sumac, to be sure, kept its greenness, and even sent out tender
shoots, just to remind us perhaps that Nature was not really dead, but
slumbering beneath her ugly garment of dust and withered growth, even
as elsewhere she takes her time of rest beneath a lovelier covering of
purest white. The foothills were barren of any kind of beauty: the very
stones and rocks wore an uncompromising air of ugliness, and the whole
country seemed to be without a single charm until the hour of sunset,
and then the mountains were tinged with purple light, and the great
boulders themselves appeared to have donned for the moment a suit of
purple heather.
Ah, for the green pastures in other countries then, for the deep lanes,
and forests of trees, for the brooks and rivers, for the grass and
ferns and mosses, and for everything in Nature soothing to the eye and
comforting to the spirit!
But as time went on, my friends, regret and longing crept stealthily
away, and curiosity and wonder took their place, for some change was
coming over the country, almost imperceptible and most mysterious.
There was no rain, but the night-fogs cast their moisture on the
dried-up bush and starved-looking chaparral. Tiny leaves broke forth
and gave the first sure sign that the long summer sleep was over. And
surely those hills had lost their former crude brown colouring, and
had mellowed into tenderer tints. There was a softening spell over
everything, and a strange sense of unrest. The heavens looked troubled,
and threatened rain at last. But still no rain came, and yet one might
see how the fresh growth was struggling to assert itself unaided. Then,
after many days of waiting, the rains fell.
And Nature began to work her beautiful miracle. She had delayed so long
that she had to work quickly; but those who cared enough, could follow
her in every detail.
A few faint signs of grass on the roadside, the palest shimmer of green
on the slopes, fine little leaves springing from the ground, a tiny
flower here and there, and in the cañons frail ferns.
Then a luxuriance of green: vast expanses of young fresh grain on the
foothills and in the great plain yonder: stretches of emerald grass
almost dazzling in its intensity, with a dash of even brighter colour,
matched only by the sea-moss on the rocks: green fields of pasture in
the valley, and on the heights green brushwood spread like a soft
velvet mantle over the distant ridges.
And then the flowers springing up in places where neither growth nor
life seems possible.
Carpets of the little pink blossom of the alfilaria, the first spring
flower: carpets of the golden violets charged with delicious fragrance,
and of the shooting-stars, so dainty with petals of white and delicate
purple, and so generous of sweetest perfume.
Colours of every hue: masses of wild hyacinths, pale lavender in
shade, thousands of yellow flowers varying from a faint tint to a deep
orange: blue, pink, red, purple flowers, any you will, and amongst them
delicate white ones of many lovely designs.
And the splendid poppy flaming and flashing in the sunlight, and the
rich indigo larkspur, and the vetches and lupins and the lilies--how
can one tell of them all, and how can one describe the gladness and
gratitude and wonder which their presence calls forth?
And then in cañons and timbered hiding-places, known only to those
who pry and probe, many a curious and lovely flower. And as the weeks
go on, fresh treasures, revealing themselves in place of those which
have passed out of sight: glorious monster poppies of crinkled white
satin, and yellow hairy mariposa lilies, just like luscious yellow
butterflies. Vines and creepers trailing on the ground, and festooning
shrubs and rocks; sweet scents wafted now from here and now from there,
and now mingling together in fragrant accord.
And all these wonders tenfold more wonderful because of that burnt and
dried-up soil from which nothing beautiful seemed possible.
But stay! The summer is here once more. The foothills are brown again:
the slopes and plains where the grain has been grown and cut, have
chosen for themselves the colour of old gold plush. Brown and old gold:
surely a charming combination.
Is it that familiar scenes take on an ever-increasing beauty? Is it
that the more intently we look, all the more surely do we see fresh
loveliness; just as when gazing into the heavens at eventide, first
one star reveals itself to us, and then another? Or is it that we know
spring will come indeed, bringing those treasures which enchanted us?