The Rattlesnake.

While proceeding along an unfrequented road, with sage brush on each side of it, we ran across a rattlesnake, about four feet long, and of good circumference, twisted up into a most peculiar position.  Investigation found that, notwithstanding the coolness of the day, he was foraging for game, and was engaged in swallowing a good-sized kangaroo rat.  The tail of the rat protruded several inches from his mouth.  The snake glared at us, but made no effort to escape or fight.  He seemed dazed, probably half choked by his efforts to swallow the rat.  We straightened him out on the ground and blew his head off with a shotgun.  We then disgorged the rat, which was at least four or five inches long, and an inch and a half in diameter.  The snake was then quickly skinned.  He had eleven rattles and a button.

Snakes eat the eggs and the young of the quail.  In view of the ravages by snakes, hawks, weasles, skunks, wildcats and coyotes I do not see how there are any quail left for the sportsmen.  The fight of these marauders is constantly going on, while the sportsmen’s efforts are at present limited to a very short period.

At a quarter after two we left Newport’s for home.  We took in a little gasoline at Riverside.  This was the only stop made on the home run, which was accomplished in three hours and a quarter (seventy-six miles) with a perfect score so far as the machine was concerned.

Nature at Her Loveliest.

We did not encounter the cruel wind in returning that buffeted us on the outward trip.  I never saw the San Gabriel Valley more beautiful than it was that afternoon.  As we bowled along the road this side of San Dimas, the entire valley lay before us.  To the west were the rugged Sierra Madre Mountains; on the east, the San Jose Hills.  They connected with the Puente Hills to the south.  West of these came the hills of the Rancho La Merced, running from the San Gabriel River westerly, and still west of them come the hills, which run east from the Arroyo Seco, north of the Bairdstown country.  From our position these hills all seemed to connect without any breaks or passes in them.  Thus the valley before us was one mountain-and-hill-bound amphitheater.  The sky was overcast by grayish clouds.  The sun hung low in the west, directly in front of us.  How gorgeous was the coloring of the sky and valley!  How the orchards and vineyards were illuminated!  How the colors lingered and seemed to fondle every growing thing, and paint each rock and point of hill as no artist could!  The sun hung in one position for quite a time before taking its final dip below the horizon.  The clouds assumed a golden tinge, turning to burnished copper.  Through breaks or irregular rifts therein, we got glimpses of the sky beyond of an opalescent blue in strong contrast with the crimson coloring of the clouds, all of which were intensely illuminated by the setting sun.  Underneath this vast sea of riotous coloring there was a subdued, intense light, which I can not describe or account for.  It brought every object in the valley plainly into view, lifted it into space, and illuminated it.  After we had passed Azusa we chanced to look back at “Old Baldy” and the Cucamonga peaks.  They were in a blaze of glorious light, purple, pink, crimson, fiery red, all mingled indiscriminately, yet all preserved in their individual intensity.