Electronic Resource
E-book Susy : A story of the plains
Where the San Leandro turnpike stretches its dusty, hot, and
interminable length along the valley, at a point where the heat and
dust have become intolerable, the monotonous expanse of wild oats on
either side illimitable, and the distant horizon apparently remoter
than ever, it suddenly slips between a stunted thicket or hedge of
"scrub oaks," which until that moment had been undistinguishable
above the long, misty, quivering level of the grain. The thicket
rising gradually in height, but with a regular slope whose gradient
had been determined by centuries of western trade winds, presently
becomes a fair wood of live-oak, and a few hundred yards further at
last assumes the aspect of a primeval forest. A delicious coolness
fills the air; the long, shadowy aisles greet the aching eye with a
soothing twilight; the murmur of unseen brooks is heard, and, by a
strange irony, the enormous, widely-spaced stacks of wild oats are
replaced by a carpet of tiny-leaved mosses and chickweed at the
roots of trees, and the minutest clover in more open spaces. The
baked and cracked adobe soil of the now vanished plains is exchanged
for a heavy red mineral dust and gravel, rocks and boulders make
their appearance, and at times the road is crossed by the white
veins of quartz. It is still the San Leandro turnpike,--a few miles
later to rise from this canada into the upper plains again,--but it
is also the actual gateway and avenue to the Robles Rancho. When
the departing visitors of Judge Peyton, now owner of the rancho,
reach the outer plains again, after twenty minutes' drive from the
house, the canada, rancho, and avenue have as completely disappeared
from view as if they had been swallowed up in the plain.
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