mammoth pattern of crazy patchwork in a state of evolution spread
out for inspection.

The impression that is made while looking out upon such a scene
is that of deep silence. Everything is hushed and still; but, by
listening attentively, the number of faint sounds that reach the
ear in an undertone is surprising. The soft soughing of the wind
in the trees; the gentle rustle of the grass as it is swayed by
the passing breeze; the musical ripple of water as it gurgles
from the spring; the piping of the quail as it calls to its mate;
the twitter of little birds flitting from bush to bough; the
chirp of the cricket and drone of the beetle are among the sounds
that are heard and fall soothingly upon the ear.

The trees growing upon the hillside bear a striking resemblance
to an old orchard and are a reminder of home where in childhood
the hand delighted to pluck luscious fruit from drooping boughs.
A walk among the trees makes it easy to imagine that you are in
some such familiar but neglected haunt, and instinctively you
look about expecting to see the old house that was once called
home and hear the welcome voice and footfall of cherished memory.
It is no little disappointment to be roused from such a reverie
to find the resemblance only a delusion and the spot deserted.
Forsaken as it has been for many years by the native savage
Indians and prowling wild beasts, the land waits in silence and
patience the coming of the husbandman.



CHAPTER II