Not the original forest: of that only
three stark pines were left, which rose one hundred feet out of a gulch
below the house and lent their ancient majesty to the modern uses of
electric wires and telephone lines. Their dreaming tops were in the sky;
their feet were in the sluicings of the stamp-mill that reared its long
brown back in a semi-recumbent posture, resting one elbow on the hill; and
beneath the valley smouldered, a pale mirage by day, by night a vision of
color transcendent and rich as the gates of the Eternal City.
At half past five the night watchman, on his way from town, stopped at
the superintendent's gate, ran up the blazing path, and thrust a newspaper
between the dark blue canvas curtains that shaded the entrance of the
porch. For hours the house had slept behind its heat defenses, every
shutter closed, yards of piazza blind and canvas awning fastened down. The
sun, a ball of fire, went slowly down the west. Rose-vines drooped against
the hanging lattices, printing their watery lines of split bamboo with
a shadow-pattern of leaf and flower. The whole house-front was decked
with dead roses, or roses blasted in full bloom, as if to celebrate with
appropriate insignia the passing of the hottest day of the year.
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