The Sierra Madre are not composed of dry, barren earth heaps, but, true to their name, are Mother Mountains, fostering and protecting life's children. A refuge for all, for primitive man of past times, who was forced to depend upon them for water and food, and for the civilized man of to-day, seeking health and enjoyment in their oxygenated atmosphere and restful solitudes.

For the lowest as well as the highest of organizations the mountains are a grateful retreat. The simple amoeba, whose existence is undoubtedly the oldest of all times, finds living here impossible, for in water it must live and move and in desert wastes it must perish.

The stately yuccas—the candlesticks of our Lord—their white fragrant blossoms borne on the straight stalks, at a distance looking like so many white stakes set by surveyors, grow only on the mountains and foothills; while down in the deep canyon streams the lowest of plants, the algÆ, abound.

The nearer one approaches to the mountains the more abundant are the signs of life, the more prolific is nature, the more do the flowers multiply; until when the foothills are reached one sees them to be literally covered with blossoms.

The ferns are already at the mountains, while the flowering plants all seem to be on their way thither, as emigrants from the dry valley, leaving but few by the roadside, stragglers loitering on the mountain march, or perhaps not stragglers, but simply doubters, hesitating whether to still proceed to where the water ever flows, or whether to wait and see what further wonders man can accomplish with his irrigation.

From the fertile, semi-tropical fields of Altadena, aglow with golden poppies, stretching up in the mountains to the rocky summit of Mount Lowe, where saxifrage and penstemons, ferns and nightshade harmoniously cleave to the rocks and strive to gain a living in summer time against altitude and dryness only to be buried in snow in the window months, the line of march extends.

Shrubs and flowers in profusion vie with each other as to which will brighten the landscape the more. The California lilac of the lower altitudes, lays downs its masses of purple blue color, the manzanita thickets of the heights send out their heavy white fragrant blossoms, a pleasing contrast to their rich red gnarled stems, while the brilliant gilias, the showy mariposa lilies, the various primroses, the mocking monkey face flowers—the mimuli, make the trails and bridle roads resplendent. The spotted tiger lilies look down upon the water flowing in the canyons, the woolly blue-curls—the trichostema, relieves the dull browns of the chapparral and the baby blue eyes, the nemophila, hugs closely the mountain sides.

The abundant phacelia whitlavia nods in its blue bells over the bank's edge, while its relative, the white phacelia, creeps over the rocks higher up. Downy yellow violets—wild pansies the children call them, so much larger are they than the Eastern violets—grow on the rich moist earth by the mountain springs.

Over the scrub oaks the yellow and white honeysuckle winds, while the clematis drapes other thickets with its graceful festoons of white blossoms in spring, leaving for the fall the funny seed balls still clinging to the vine.

Later in the year the wild fuchias and wild astors come unexpectedly forth when valley flowers have long since given up blooming, keeping up the reputation of the mountains for having flowers at all times and at all seasons.