Bleak and barren as is for the most part the immediate neighborhood of the Springs, one need not ride very far to reach the cool shade of the mountain woods.

One day, when Walter and Nellie were telling Francisco of the delicious sugar-cane in their native State and lamenting that in California there were no lilacs or "snowballs," the Indian boy said:

"But yes; in the garden of the teacher there are always lilacs in the spring. From the woods the children brought them to her, young plants; now they are trees, and they bloom very well indeed. She says they are not so large or so sweet-swelling as those of her own home in the East, but yet they will do, she says. And of snowball trees she has two."

"With bright green leaves and big, round flowers, like snowballs?" asked Nellie.

"Yes, from a distance that is how they look. Now they have done blooming, but in the spring they are fine. Wild roses we have in the woods over yonder. There are spots full of them. Would you like to see? And I will show you then the sugar tree."

"Let us ask papa to have a picnic. Can we come and go in one day, Francisco?"

"Easily, if we start early enough," said Francisco.

The children lost no time in making their request. Everybody was willing to do something to vary the monotony of life in Cupa. Very early one morning a few days later the party, with Mauricio and Francisco in charge, started for the woods.

Mr. Page was something of a naturalist, or, it might more properly be said, a lover of nature in every beautiful form. When they had come into the shadow of the woods he began to observe the various kinds of shrubs, and was pleased to find a variety of "buckeye" native to California. Presently they came upon a large cluster of bushes, growing luxuriantly, the leaves of which very much resembled those of the india-rubber tree.

"There," said Francisco, "is a tree the Americans call 'mahogany tree' on account of its color, but the Indians name it limonada."

"What does that mean?" asked Mr. Page.

"The lemonade tree," said Mauricio. "The little fruits, or pods, have a sour sweetness. We soak them in water, and they make a nice lemonade. You will see our women and children gathering them when they are getting ripe. They put them into sacks and carry them home. Then they lay them in the sun to dry. It is a very nice drink. We have some at our house. Some day, if you wish, Francisco will take you a quantity."

"Yes; we'd like to taste it," said Nellie. "Perhaps we might gather some of the fruit and take it home."

"Of what need?" said the Indian boy. "There you have plenty lemons. Here we have none—that is, unless we buy them."

"They are cheaper now than in the old days," said Mauricio. "Still, many of our people like better the limonada pods."

"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."

"Again in the fall the fruit ripens," said Mauricio, "and near to Christmas, when the berries are a bright red, you begin to see the wagons loaded with the Christmas greens coming down the mountain roads and going into the city. Oh, I have often taken down a load; it makes money for us."

"That manganita is the finest thing we know," said Francisco. "Deep in the ground are the roots; they make good fuel. We burn them, and some sell them in town. You have, maybe, burned the manganita roots, Mr. Page?"

"No, we have not," was the reply; "but if you ever fetch us down a good load in the fall, Francisco, we will burn them this winter."

"Very well; it shall be done," said the boy. "I shall be glad to do so."

"It must be nearly lunch-time," ventured Nellie. "I feel pretty hungry."

Her father looked at his watch. "It is only eleven," he said, "but we had breakfast early. There does not seem to be any level ground just here. Shall we come to some after a while, Mauricio?"

"Soon," replied the Indian. "Wait a while and you will see. There will be water, good water, and we can make coffee."

The ascent had grown very steep; the horses tugged slowly but willingly upward. Suddenly they seemed to be at the top of the mountain. The slope on the other side, becoming very gradual, led into a broad, green, pleasant valley fringed by luxuriant foliage.

"How beautiful!" was the general exclamation.

"It seems like an enchanted valley," said Aunt Mary. "If you will observe, it forms an almost perfect circle. That lovely fringe of green surrounding it—the foot-hills just above—and those magnificent mountains in the background—it does indeed make one think of an enchanted valley."

"Once it was encantado,"[F] rejoined Mauricio.

"What is it called? Has it any name?" asked Walter.

The Indians smiled and looked at each other.

"You will not be frightened if I tell you?" asked Mauricio. "The danger is past—nothing can hurt you. The spell is long since broken."

"Oh, tell us!" cried Nellie. "We won't be frightened."

"It is called 'El Valle de los Cascabeles'—'The Valley of the Rattlesnakes.'"

"Ugh!" exclaimed Nellie. "Are there rattlesnakes down there?"

"Not any more, I think; perhaps never any there," answered Mauricio. "But there is a story."

"A story? Oh, do tell it to us," cried the children.

"You see, as we come nearer," replied the Indian, "that in the centre is a large, round spot where nothing is growing—no grass, no bush, no tree."

It was true. In strange contrast to the fresh verdure all around, this single, bald, unlovely spot, black as though fire had burned it, stood forth.

"Once, very long ago," said Mauricio, "there lived a tribe of Indians in those mountains over there where the Volcan smokes. They came every year here to this valley for their fiesta—all the tribe. Once they were at war with some others who dwelt beyond the Volcan, near to the peaks of the Cuyamaca. Then it happened that the son of the chief of the Volcans was wounded and captured in a fight, and they took him to the camp of the Cuyamacas, and there he was tended by the women.

"Then, when he was well and able to go again back to his own people, he vowed that he would have for his wife the daughter of the chief of the Cuyamacas, the fairest of her tribe, and that there should be peace forever between the Cuyamacas and the Volcans. Now, the chief of the Cuyamacas was very, very old, and he was not unwilling that peace should be before he died. Not so the chief of the Volcans. He called down all the wrath of the great spirit on his son, and the young man, angered at his father, swore that he would disobey him and join the side of the enemy against him. 'The great good spirit will desert thee,' said his father. 'Thou and thy posterity shall be accursed.'

"'Then I call upon the spirit of evil to aid me,' said the rash young brave, and bursting away from his father he betook himself to this valley. When he reached it he saw in the middle of the broad space a large, flat stone which before had not been in the valley. And a voice said in his ear: 'Lift up the stone.' But he said: 'I can not; it is twenty times broader, and many times heavier than I.' 'Lift up the stone,' said the voice again.

"Then he obeyed, and there came forth a legion of rattlesnakes, scattering in every direction; but they touched him not. He slept, and in the morning returned to the camp of the Cuyamacas and married the daughter of the chief. But the people did not trust him, and his wife taunted him with his ingratitude to his parents. He bowed his head and went forth once more. In the bitterness of his grief he wandered to the valley, and there he saw lying dead around the ashes of a camp-fire many braves and squaws and papooses of his tribe. His father and mother were there, and his sisters and his fellow-braves. All about them were the cascabeles darting to and fro, and then he knew that the evil spirit had done this thing because he had called upon him for aid.

"So he lay down in the centre of the valley, where the stone had been, and he cried out: 'I renounce you, O Spirit of Evil! Be it done unto me, O Spirit of Good, as it has been done unto my people.' Then there came a great fire out of the earth beneath him, and even to his bones he was destroyed. But perhaps he was thus purified from his sin. Since that time this place has been known as the 'Valley of the Rattlesnakes.' Where the young chief was burned no blade of grass has since grown."

"A very interesting story," said Mr. Page.

"But who told of it if they were all dead?" queried Walter, a little skeptical.

Mauricio shrugged his shoulders. "That I can not say," he replied. "It was an old story long before my grandfather was born."

"And what became of the rattlesnakes? Are any of their descendants living among those bushes?" asked Mrs. Page.

"If they are," said Aunt Mary, "I think we ought to camp somewhere else for lunch and rest."

"We shall not be near the bushes," said Mauricio, "and there is no other place near where we can stop to eat."

"You will never see a snake in an open place like this," said Francisco. "There is no danger."

"We will stop now," said Mr. Page. They were at the edge of the circular green basin, and Mauricio pulled up the horses. The party left the wagon, glad to stretch their limbs after so long a ride. A couch of robes and blankets was made for Mrs. Page under a tree. Aunt Mary sat down beside her, and the others busied themselves in spreading out the lunch.

"Come; I will show you a pretty sight," said Francisco to the children, taking a tin pail from the wagon. They followed him to the bushes, in the midst of which stood a large sycamore tree, the only one to be seen. Putting aside its luxuriant boughs, the Indian boy disclosed a sparkling spring tumbling down from the rocks above.

"This it is which makes the valley so green," he said, "and the bushes to grow everywhere." The water was icy cold. "It is an iron spring," continued Francisco, "and good for many diseases. Many persons camp in this section. There are pretty little spots all around."

"See that rock above the spring?" asked Nellie, pointing to the spot. "It looks like an armchair with a flat back and a broad seat. It must be lovely to sit up there and listen to the trickle, trickle of the water over the pebbles."

"I never thought of that," said Francisco. "Many times as I have been here, I have never thought of that. But so it is."

When they returned with the water Aunt Mary made the coffee, and luncheon was ready. Afterward Mr. Page and Mauricio walked up and down, discussing the coming eviction of the Indians; Mrs. Page and Aunt Mary were resting; Francisco and Walter were cutting twigs for whistles.

For some time Nellie wandered about alone till finally her steps turned in the direction of the iron spring. She had a strong desire to sit in the natural armchair she had discovered. It was just like what a girl in a story-book would do, she thought.

For some moments she stood watching the clear, sparkling water falling over the stones; then, stepping across the little stream she climbed up on the other side and seated herself on the broad rock, her feet resting on the turfy grass beneath. It was very pleasant to sit in that shady nook, to watch the sunlight filter through the green leaves of the sycamore, and listen to the singing of the tiny waterfall.

Nellie was tired; she had been up since dawn. Pulling off her sun-bonnet, she leaned her head against the flat, cool stone that formed the back of the comfortable seat.

"Whiz—whiz—whiz!" went something close behind her. Leaning back, she tried to locate the sound. "It is like a corn-crake," she thought. "But I never heard anything just like it. Can it be a bird?"

"Whiz—whiz!" she heard again, but now the sound receded and presently ceased.

"I wonder if it could have been a big grasshopper," thought the child, once more resuming her restful position. In a moment she was fast asleep.

"Nellie! Nellie!" called her father; but she did not hear him.

"Nellie! Nellie!" repeated Walter a few moments later.

The child slept on, while the golden light still trickled through the leaves, and the silvery water sang its one, unchanging song. Something that had crawled away, something Nellie had mercifully not seen!—long, lithe, slender, sinuous, horrible, with slimy skin and loathsome head and glittering eyes—began slowly to return, creeping toward the child in the sylvan chair.

She did not awake, for the crawling thing made no perceptible sound. The bushes parted. Francisco was there, hearing, seeing, and in an instant, leaping the stream, springing to her side.

In a moment she was in his arms, wide-awake and frightened; but the creeping creature the Indian boy had seen with its head erect and fangs exposed had vanished in the bushes, despoiled of its prey. Another instant, and they all had surrounded the little girl. Alarmed by Walter's shriek, for he also had seen the snake, they had run to the spot.

When everyone had grown calm again, they looked about for Francisco. While they were wondering where he had gone and why, the boy came crashing through the brushwood, carrying upon a stout stick a rattlesnake more than six feet long.