On one side, beginning at the very lip of the pool, was a tiny meadow, a cool, resilient surface of green that extended to the base of the frowning wall.  Beyond the pool a gentle slope of earth ran up and up to meet the opposing wall.  Fine grass covered the slope—­grass that was spangled with flowers, with here and there patches of color, orange and purple and golden.  Below, the canyon was shut in.  There was no view.  The walls leaned together abruptly and the canyon ended in a chaos of rocks, moss-covered and hidden by a green screen of vines and creepers and boughs of trees.  Up the canyon rose far hills and peaks, the big foothills, pine-covered and remote.  And far beyond, like clouds upon the border of the sky, towered minarets of white, where the Sierra’s eternal snows flashed austerely the blazes of the sun.

There was no dust in the canyon.  The leaves and flowers were clean and virginal.  The grass was young velvet.  Over the pool three cottonwoods sent their snowy fluffs fluttering down the quiet air.  On the slope the blossoms of the wine-wooded manzanita filled the air with springtime odors, while the leaves, wise with experience, were already beginning their vertical twist against the coming aridity of summer.  In the open spaces on the slope, beyond the farthest shadow-reach of the manzanita, poised the mariposa lilies, like so many flights of jewelled moths suddenly arrested and on the verge of trembling into flight again.  Here and there that woods harlequin, the madrone, permitting itself to be caught in the act of changing its pea-green trunk to madder-red, breathed its fragrance into the air from great clusters of waxen bells.  Creamy white were these bells, shaped like lilies-of-the-valley, with the sweetness of perfume that is of the springtime.

There was not a sigh of wind.  The air was drowsy with its weight of perfume.  It was a sweetness that would have been cloying had the air been heavy and humid.  But the air was sharp and thin.  It was as starlight transmuted into atmosphere, shot through and warmed by sunshine, and flower-drenched with sweetness.

An occasional butterfly drifted in and out through the patches of light and shade.  And from all about rose the low and sleepy hum of mountain bees—­feasting Sybarites that jostled one another good-naturedly at the board, nor found time for rough discourtesy.  So quietly did the little stream drip and ripple its way through the canyon that it spoke only in faint and occasional gurgles.  The voice of the stream was as a drowsy whisper, ever interrupted by dozings and silences, ever lifted again in the awakenings.