"Over there, in the cañon," said Francisco, "are the sugar trees. It is not the time now for the fruit, but later in the autumn they will gather it and dry it."
They followed a well-worn road along the course of a small stream which trickled down the mountain-side—now disappearing, now shining like a thread of silver, now crossing the path in front of them. All along the road, marking its course in its curving deviations, grew the beautiful wax myrtle, with its smooth, dark-green leaves and perfect, white flowers.
As they plunged deeper into the woods, the rich, pungent odor of the mountain sage grew more pronounced; they came upon wild bees flitting from flower to flower. Clumps of wild-rose trees, drooping with blooms, offered a generous hospitality to the industrious gatherers of honey. However, the little wayfarers undoubtedly preferred the aromatic white and black sage.
The foliage grew more and more dense; soon the trees on either side arched over their heads; the bed of the stream was now perfectly dry. Just at the bend of a broad cañon they came upon more bushes, in some places as high as trees and with a crown of dense, pale foliage at their top.
"What are these?" inquired Mr. Page. "Some are like dwarfs, others are giants, and their trunks and stocks seem to have been twisted by some convulsion of nature."
"That is the manganita—the Christmas berry of California," said Francisco.
"Ah, I see," remarked Mr. Page. "When we first came, don't you remember, mother, it reminded us of the eastern holly."
"Yes," said his wife, "and it made me very homesick to see it."
"It is always beautiful, the manganita," said Mauricio. "About December, when it is warm in the sheltered cañons though there may be snow in the mountains, the manganita puts forth pretty, small white bells."
"Sometimes they are a little pink," said Francisco, "and then they are prettier. When they fall the shrub seems to grow stronger, and the new shoots come forth scarlet and crimson. They look beautiful with the green of the older leaves."