“Snowclad peaks not up to specifications?” he inquired.  “Chromos much better?  Mountain grandeur somewhat on the blink?  Where’d you expect them to put a railroad—­out where the scenery is?  Never mind.  Wait till you slide off ‘Cape Horn’ into California.”

The cold weather followed them to the top of the Sierras.  Snow, dull clouds, mists and cold enveloped the train.  Miles of snowsheds necessitated keeping the artificial light burning even at midday.  Winter held them in its grip.

Then one morning they rounded the bold corner of a high mountain.  Far below them dropped away the lesser peaks, down a breathless descent.  And from beneath, so distant as to draw over themselves a tender veil of pearl gray, flowed out foothills and green plains.  The engine coughed, shut off the roar of her exhaust.  The train glided silently forward.

“Now come to the rear platform,” Baker advised.

They sat in the open air while the train rushed downward.  From the great drifts they ran to the soft, melting snow, then to the mud and freshness of early spring.  Small boys crowded early wild-flowers on them whenever they stopped at the small towns built on the red clay.  The air became indescribably soft and balmy, full of a gentle caress.  At the next station the children brought oranges.  A little farther the foothill ranches began to show the brightness of flowers.  The most dilapidated hovel was glorified by splendid sprays of red roses big as cabbages.  Dooryards of the tiniest shacks blazed with red and yellow.  Trees and plants new to Bob’s experience and strangely and delightfully exotic in suggestion began to usurp the landscape.  To the far Northerner, brought up in only a common-school knowledge of olive trees, palms, eucalyptus, oranges, banana trees, pomegranates and the ordinary semi-tropical fruits, there is something delightful and wonderful in the first sight of them living and flourishing in the open.  When closer investigation reveals a whole series of which he probably does not remember ever to have heard, he feels indeed an explorer in a new and wonderful land.  After a few months these things become old stories.  They take their places in his cosmos as accustomed things.  He is then at some pains to understand his visitor’s extravagant interest and delight over loquats, chiramoyas, alligator pears, tamarinds, guavas, the blooming of century plants, the fruits of chollas and the like.  Baker pointed out some of these things to Bob.

“Winter to summer in two jumps and a hop,” said he.  “The come-on stuff rings the bell in this respect, anyway.  Smell the air:  it’s real air.  ‘Listen to the mocking bird.’”

“Seriously or figuratively?” asked Bob.  “I mean, is that a real mocking bird?”

“Surest thing you know,” replied Baker as the train moved on, leaving the songster to his ecstasies.  “They sing all night out here.  Sounds fine when you haven’t a grouch.  Then you want to collect a brick and drive the darn fowl off the reservation.”