" ... the morning was something to remember... "

27, Feb. 2018

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Coast Trails

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 Mr. Chase has an unerring way with words; blending observations,
thoughts, feelings, description, which he then marshal's into a
musical ensemble akin to a symphony. Without further adieu,
let the music begin!

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" The night was cloudy but warm. Our blankets were spread upon a

deep litter of blue-gum leaves, and their vigorous essences gave the

spot unusual attractiveness as a sleeping place. Something, however,

-- probably the virtue of our Laguna friends' home-grown tobacco, --

again made me wakeful; but it was enjoyable enough to lie and watch

the quiet play of the foliage, the only sounds, the gentle clatter of

leaf on leaf, the industrious mastication of the horses, the occasional

challenges of distant owls, and the monotonous voice of the surf

lulling the earth with its unceasing narrative. 

The hubbub of birds that greeted the morning was something to 

remember. The kingbirds seemed to be the earliest risers, their

waking complaints overlapping the long-range adieus of the owls.

For some time nothing else stirred. No doubt birds have their 

peculiarities of temper, or at least of temperament, just as we have.

I fancied the less strenuous inhabitants of the trees lying lethargically

gazing at the brightening sky, awaiting the fatal moment when the

duties of the coming day no longer could be ignored: perhaps, like 

some of us, the victims of ' liver. ' 

In due course the linnets, blackbirds, orioles, and canaries came in; and

just before sunrise the cliff swallows, of whom a flock of full two

hundred inhabited a cavern by the lagoon, filled the air with their  sweet

trilling voices as they swung and soared in zestful manoeuvres. Then

the cliff wren's cascade of plaintive chromatics rang out from far up

the hill; and when the sun arose, and with him the insects, the flycatchers

arrived to occupy the most desirable stations for business. Next the quail

began to call in the willows, their flute-like voices receding as they

made their way to the hillsides for the day; the soft cry of doves came

from the stubble; and finally the scream of a hunting hawk supplied the

inevitable element of discord. "

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