CHAPTER V.

"Bless me, this is pleasant,Riding on the rail!"

On the Surf Line from San Diego to Los Angeles, a seventy-mile run along the coast, there is so much to see, admire, and think about, that the time passes rapidly without napping or nodding. Take a chair seat on the left of car—the ocean side—and enjoy the panoramic view from the window: the broad expanse of the Pacific, its long curling breakers, the seals and porpoises tumbling about in clumsy frolics, the graceful gulls circling above them, the picturesque cañons, and the flocks of birds starting from the ground, frightened by our approach. This we watch for more than an hour; then the scene changes, and, leaving the water, we have glimpses of wondrous carpets of wild-flowers, the golden poppy predominant, miles of brilliant green on either hand, peeps at the three missions, the groves at Orange, the town of Santa Ana, and Anaheim, the parent colony, the first of all the irrigated settlements of Southern California, now a wealthy city.

The missions are always interesting. San Juan Capistrano was seriously injured by an earthquake in 1812; the tower was shaken so severely that it toppled over during morning mass, killing thirty of the worshippers, the priests escaping through the sacristy. It was the latest and costliest of the missions. "Its broken olive mill and crumbling dove-cote, and the spacious weed-grown courts and corridors, are pathetic witnesses to the grandeur of the plans and purposes of the founders, and also of the rapidity with which nature effaces the noblest works of human hands."

But San Luis Rey is in good condition, having been restored to something of its original beauty, and recently re-dedicated. The walled enclosures once contained fifty-six acres, six being covered by the sacred edifice, its arched colonnades, and the cloisters, in which the Fathers lived, surrounded by three thousand baptized savages. Mrs. Jeanne C. Carr quotes a stage-driver with whom she talked on the box as saying: "Ye see, ma'am, what them old padders didn't know 'bout findin' work for their subjicks and pervidin' for the saints 'n' angels, not to say therselves, wa'n't wuth knowin'. They carried on all kinds o' bizness. Meat was plenty, keepin' an' vittles was to be had at all the missions an' ranches too, jes' by settin' round. The pastures and hills was alive with horses and cattle, an' hides an' taller was their coin. They cured and stacked the hides, dug holes in stiff ground, an' run the taller into 'em; it kep' sweet until a ship laid up to Capistrano,then that taller turned into gold. They could load up a big ship in a single day, they had so many Indians to help." And he proceeded to tell of his own lucky find: "A lot of that holy taller was lost 'n' fergot, nobuddy knows how many years. One night I went up into the grass beyant the mission to stake out my hosses; an' when I druv the fust stake it went way deawn, like 'twas in soft mud. I jes' yanked it up: half on 't was kivered with grease. The evening was cool, but the day had been brilin', an' now mebbe ye kin guess how I found my taller mine. 'Twas a leetle mouldy on top, but the heft on 't was hard,—a reg'lar bonanzy fer a stage-driver."

It may seem irreverent to introduce this droll fellow in sharp contrast with the beautiful ruin, full of the most cherished memories of old Spain, but reality often gives romance a hard jar. It is pleasant to know that the expelled Franciscan order has just returned to California, and that San Luis Rey is now occupied. It is worth making the trip to San Juan to see the old bells struck, as in former times, by a rope attached to the clapper. They have different tones, and how eloquently they speak to us. These missions along the coast and a line farther inland are the only real ruins that we have in America, and must be preserved, whether as a matter of sentiment or money, and in some way protected from the vandals who think it jolly fun to lug off the old red tiles, or even the stone bowl for holy water—anything they can steal. At San Juan the plaster statues have been disgracefully mutilated by relic-hunters and thoughtless visitors. Eyes have been picked out, noses cut off, fingers carried away, and the altar-cloths everywhere have been slashed at the corners.

A society has been formed to try to save them, and one learned and enthusiastic mission lover proposes to revive the old Camino del Rey, or King's Highway. "What could not the drive from San Diego to Sonoma be made if the State once roused herself to make it? Planted and watered and owned as an illustration of forestry, why should it not also as a route of pilgrimage rank with that to Canterbury or Cologne on the Rhine? The Franciscans have given to California a nomenclature which connects them and us permanently with what was great in their contemporary history, while we preserve daily upon our lips the names of the great chiefs of their own order."

But where am I? Those mouldering walls led me into a reverie. Speaking of "ruins" reminds me of a Frenchman who called on the poet Longfellow in his old age and explained his visit in this way: "Sare, you 'ave no ruins in dis country, so I 'ave come to see you."

The cactus hedge around each mission to keep the cattle in, and possibly the hostile Indians out, must have been effective. We see now and then a little that has survived. This makes me think of a curious bird I noticed in my drives at San Diego, the roadrunner, classed with the cuckoo. It has various names, the chaparral-cock, the ground-cuckoo, the prairie-cock, paisano, and worst of all, in classic nomenclature, theGeococcyx californianus.

It keeps on the ground most of the time, and can run with such swiftness that it cannot be easily overtaken by horse and hounds. It has a tail longer than its body, which it bears erect. It kills beetles, toads, birds, and mice, but has a special dislike for the rattlesnake, and often meets him and beats him in fair combat. When it finds one sleeping or torpid it makes a circle of cactus thorns around him so he cannot escape—for "future reference," as my driver said.

This thorny circle is akin to the lariat made of horsehair, the ends sticking out roughly all around, with which the Indian used to encircle himself before going to sleep, as a protection from the rattlesnake, who could not cross it. But here we are at Los Angeles. Hear the bawling cabbies: "This way for The Westminster!" "Hollenbeck Hotel!"

"O southland! O dreamland! with cycles of green;O moonlight enchanted by mocking-bird's song;Cool sea winds, fair mountains, the fruit-lands between,The pepper tree's shade, and the sunny days long."

Los Angeles is the chief city of Southern California, and truly venerable in comparison with most places in the State—founded in 1781, now one hundred and twelve years old. Its full name, "Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles," "musical as a chime of bells," would hardly do in these days, and "The City of the Angels," as it is sometimes called, scarcely suits the present big business-y place, which was started by those shrewd old padres when everything west of the Alleghanies was an almost unknown region, and Chicago and St. Louis were not thought of. These Fathers were far-sighted fellows, with a keen eye for the beautiful, sure to secure good soil, plenty of water, and fine scenery for a settlement. Next came the Hispano-American era of adobe, stage-coaches, and mule teams, now replaced by the purely American possessions, with brick, stone, vestibule trains, and all the wonders of electricity. It is now a commercial centre, a railroad terminal, with one hundred miles of street-car track within the city limits, carrying twelve million passengers yearly. It has outgrown the original grant of six miles square, and has a city limit, and the first street traversed this square diagonally. It lies on the west bank of the Los Angeles River, one of those peculiar streams which hides itself half the year only to burst forth in the spring in a most assertive manner. There are fine public buildings, fifty-seven churches, to suit all shades of religious belief, two handsome theatres, several parks, and long streets showing homes and grounds comparing favorably with the best environs of Eastern cities. It is well to drive through Adams and Figueroa streets before you leave. There are no attractive hotels at present; but one is so greatly needed and desired that it will soon be designed and realized.

Madame de Staël was right when she said she greatly preferred meeting interesting men and women to admiring places or scenery. Among my pleasantest memories of Los Angeles are my visits to Madame Fremont in her pretty red cottage, presented by loving friends. It is a privilege to meet such a clever, versatile woman. Her conversation flashes with epigrams and pithy sayings, and her heart is almost as young as when it was captured by the dashing "Pathfinder."

I believe there are men still existing who keep up the old absurd fallacy that women are deficient in wit and humor! She would easily convert all such.

The Coronels, to whom Mrs. Jackson was so indebted and of whom she wrote so appreciatively, are still in the same home, cherishing her memory most fondly, her photograph being placed in a shrine where the sweet-faced madame kneels daily, and her books and knick-knacks are preserved as precious souvenirs.

Don Antonio Coronel is truly a most interesting personage, the last specimen of the grand old Spanish régime. His father was the first schoolmaster in California, and the son has in his possession the first schoolbook printed on this coast, at Monterey in 1835, a small catechism; also the first book printed in California, a tiny volume dated 1833, the father having brought the type from Spain.

I was taken to the basement to see a rare collection of antiquities. In one corner is a cannon made in 1710, and brought by Junipero Serra. Ranged on shelves is a collection such as can be found nowhere else, of great value: strange stone idols, a few specimens of the famous iridescent pottery, queer ornaments, toys, and relics. In another corner see the firearms and weapons of long ago: old flintlocks, muskets, Spanish bayonets, crossbows, and spears. There are coins, laces, baskets, toys, skulls, scalps, and a sombrero with two long red pennons, on which each feather represents a human scalp. Upstairs there are early specimens of Mexican art; one of the oldest pictures of Junipero Serra; groups in clay modelled by the Dona Mariana of Mexican scenes; feather pictures made from the plumage of gorgeous birds—too much to remember or describe here. But I do believe that if asked to say what they valued most, they would point to the little wooden table where their dear friend sat when she wrote the first pages of "Ramona."

For the stranger Los Angeles is the place to go to to see a new play, or marvel at the display of fruits seen at a citrus fair—forts made of thousands of oranges, and railroad stations and crowns of lemons, etc.—and admire a carnival of flowers, or for a day's shopping; but there are better spots in which to remain. I found the night air extremely unpleasant last winter, and after hearing from a veracious druggist, to whom I applied for a gargle, that there was an epidemic of grip in the city, and that many died of pneumonia and that a small majority of the invalids got well, I packed my trunk hastily and started for Pasadena.

Those who live in the city and those who do not dislike raw, bracing winds from the ocean pronounce Los Angeles to be theonlyplace worth living in in all Southern California. Each place has its supporters ignoring all other attractions, and absolutely opposite accounts of the weather have been seriously given me by visitors to each. For those who must be "high and dry" to improve, the rainy season is certainly unsafe.

Los Angeles is also a place to go from to the beach at Santa Monica, and Redondo, or that wondrous island, "Santa Catalina," which has been described by Mr. C. F. Holder in theCalifornianso enthusiastically that I should think the "Isle of Summer" could not receive all who would unite to share his raptures—with a climate nearer to absolute perfection than any land, so near all the conveniences of civilization, and everything else that can be desired. His first jew-fish or black sea-bass weighed 342½ pounds, and a dozen other varieties are gamy and plentiful; fine sport with the rifle in the upland region, wealth of verdure along the trail; below, good hotel, beaches, bathing, evening concerts—"the true land of sweet idleness, where one can drift around with all nature to entertain." To be strictly truthful, I must add that the hotel was built just over an old Indian burying-ground, therefore cases of typhoid fever are not unknown.

"If there be an Elysium upon earth,It is this, it is this."

For my own taste, I prefer Pasadena, the "Crown of the Valley"—nine miles from Los Angeles, but eight hundred feet higher and with much drier air, at the foot of the Sierra Madre range, in the beauteous San Gabriel Valley. Yes, Pasadena seems to me as near Eden as can be found by mortal man.

Columbus in a letter to Ferdinand and Isabella said, "I believe that if I should pass under the equator in arriving at this higher region of which I speak, I should find there a milder temperature and a diversity in the stars and in the waters.... I am convinced that there is the Terrestrial Paradise."

Poor persecuted Columbus! I wish he could have once seen Pasadena, the very spot he dreamed of. Can I now write calmly, critically, judicially of what I see, enjoy, admire and wonder over? If I succeed it will be what no one else has done. I was here last year and gave my impressions then, which are only strengthened by a second visit, so that I will quote my own words, which read like the veriest gush, but are absolutely true, came straight from my heart, and, after all, didn't half tell the story.

I am fascinated and enthralled by your sun-kissed, rose-embowered, semi-tropical summer-land of Hellenic sky and hills of Hymettus, with its paradoxical antitheses: of flowers and flannels; strawberries and sealskin sacks; open fires with open windows; snow-capped mountains and orange blossoms; winter looking down upon summer—a topsy-turvy land, where you dig for your wood and climb for your coal; where water-pipes are laid above ground, with no fear of Jack Frost, and your principal rivers flow bottom side up and invisible most of the time; where the boys climb up hill on burros and slide down hills on wheels; where the trees are green all the year, and you go outdoors in December to get warm; where squirrels live in the ground with owls for chums, while rats build in the trees, and where water runs up hill; where anything unpleasant, from a seismic disturbance to mosquitoes in March, is "exceptional" and surprising. A land where there are no seasons, but where sunshine and shade are so distinctly marked that one can be easily half baked on one side and dangerously chilled on the other.

Then the Climate—spell it with a capital, and then try to think of an adjective worthy to precede it. Glorious! Delicious! Incomparable! Paradisaical!!! To a tenderfoot straight from New Hampshire, where we have nine months of winter and three of pretty cold weather, where we have absolutely but three months that are free from frost, this seems like enchanted ground.

A climate warm, with a constant refreshing coolness in its heart; cool, with a latent vivifying warmth forever peeping out of its coat-tail pocket.

June does not define it, nor September. It has no synonym, for there is nothing like it. I am glad that I have lived to see hedges of heliotrope, of geraniums and calla-lilies. I remember, in contrast, solitary calla plants that I have nursed with care all winter in hopes of one blossom for Easter. And I do not feel sure that I can ever tear myself away. I am reminded of good old Dr. Watts, who was invited by Lady Abney to pass a fortnight at her home, and remained for forty years.

Here we all unconsciously eat the lotus in some occult fashion, are straightway bewitched and held willing captives. I have looked up the lotus, about which so much is said or sung and so little definitely known, and find it is a prickly shrub of Africa, bearing a fruit of a sweet taste, and the early Greeks knew all about its power. Homer in the Odyssey says that whoever ate of the fruit wished never to depart nor again to see his native land. Many of Ulysses' sailors ate this fruit, and lost all desire for home.

The last letter received by me from New Hampshire, April 3d, begins in this way: "It is like the middle of winter here, good sleighing and still very cold." And then comes a sad series of announcements of sickness and deaths caused by the protracted rigors of the season. And here, at the same date, all the glories of the spring, which far exceeds our summer—Spanish breezes, Italian sky and sunsets, Alpine mountains, tropical luxuriance of vegetation, a nearly uniform climate, a big outdoor conservatory. There is no other place on earth that combines so much in the same limits. You can snowball your companions on Christmas morning on the mountain-top, pelt your lady friends with rose leaves in the foot-hills three hours later, and in another sixty minutes dip in the surf no cooler than Newport in July; and the theatre in the evening. As a bright workman said, you can freeze through and thaw out in one day.

An electric railroad will soon connect Los Angeles with Pasadena and Mount Wilson, and a fine hotel is to be placed on the top of Echo Mountain, 3500 feet high, and this will then certainly be the ideal health and pleasure resort of the world.

Pasadena's homes, protected on three sides by mountain ranges, are surrounded by groves and gardens, trees and hedges from every clime. Everything will grow and flourish here. Capitalists from the East seem engaged in a generous rivalry to create the ideal paradise. Passion vines completely cover the arbors, roses clamber to the tops of houses and blossom by tens of thousands. I notice displays fit for a floral show in the windows of butcher shops and shoe stores. The churches are adorned with a mantle of vines and flowers.

Are there no "outs," no defects in this Pasadena? One must not forget the rainy days, the occasional "hot spells" of August and September, a wind now and then that blows off steeples and tears down fragile structures, bringing along a good deal more sand than is wanted. And every year an earthquake may be expected. I have experienced two, and they are not agreeable.

Aside from these drawbacks and dust in summer, all else is perfection, except that the weather is so uniformly glorious that there is seldom a day when one is willing to stay at home. I feel just now like a "deestrick" schoolboy who has been "kept in" on a summer afternoon.

The wild-flowers are more fascinating to me than all those so profusely cultivated. I weary of five thousand calla-lilies in one church at Easter, and lose a little interest in roses when they bloom perennially and in such profusion that I have had enough given me in one morning to fill a wash-tub or clothes-basket!

The wealth of color on the hills and mesas in springtime can never be described or painted. The State flower, the yellow poppy with the name that would floor any spelling-match hero—the eschscholtzia—is most conspicuous, and can be seen far away at sea; but there are dozens of others, that it is better to admire and leave unplucked, as they wilt so soon. "The ground is literally dolly-vardened with buttercups, violets, dodecatheons, gilias, nemophilas, and the like. And yet these are the mere skirmish line of the mighty invading hosts, whose uniforms surpass the kingly robes of Solomon, and whose banners of crimson and yellow and purple will soon wave on every hilltop and in every valley.

"In April and May the lover of nature may pass into the seventh heaven of botanical delight. Then in favored sections the display reaches a gorgeousness and a profusion that surpass both description and imagination."

No one can paint the grain fields as they look when the sun puts into every blade a tiny golden ray and it is no longer every-day common grain, but an enchanted carpet of living, radiant, golden green. We tourists call it grass, but there is no grass to be proud of in California.

No one can paint the sky; no one would accept it as true to nature if once caught on the canvas.

I will not attempt to describe the mountains with their many charms. I listened to a lecture lately where a man was struggling to do this, and it was positively painful. The flowery verbiage, the accumulated adjectives, the poetical quotations were overpowering. I seemed actually sinking into luscious mellifluousness. I shook it off my fingers, as if it were maple syrup. Then, as he climbed higher and higher, on and up, never getting away from the richest verdure and the sweetest flowers, scenes for an artist to paint with rapture, and a poet to sing in ecstasy, I found myself pushing up my forehead to improvise a mansard roof for my brain to swell in sympathy. And when he reached the summit and the panorama burst upon his enraptured vision, it was too much for my strained emotions, and I quietly slipped out.

And the strangest part is that every word is true, and, say what one will, one never gets near the reality. In this respect, you see, it differs from a floral catalogue sent out in early spring, or a hotel pamphlet with illustrations.

The cable road is 3000 feet long, with a direct ascent of 1400 feet, and the Echo Mountain House will be 1500 feet higher than the Catskill hotels overlooking the Hudson, and it is estimated that not less than 60,000 fares will be collected upon this mountain railroad the first year.

All this was designed and executed by Professor Lowe, of aeronaut fame, a scientist and banker, the inventor of water-gas and artificial ice, and a man of great business ability.

One of the best proofs of the health-giving power of this air is the fact that the physicians practising here, with one exception, came seriously ill and have not only recovered, but are strong enough to keep very busy helping others.

Pasadena has no ragged shabby outskirts; the poorer classes seem to be able to own or rent pretty little homes, some like large birdcages, all well kept and attractive. Some gentlemen from Indianapolis came here in 1873 and started the town, planting their orange orchards under the shadows of the mountains.

Each portion has its own attractions. Orange Grove Avenue, a street over a mile long, is described by its name. Great trees stand in the centre of the street, a fine road on either side, and the homes are embowered in flowers and palms, while hedges are made of the pomegranate, the honeysuckle, and even the heliotrope. Marengo Avenue is lined on either side by splendid specimens of the pepper, the prettiest and most graceful of all trees here. Colorado Street, with its homes and shops and churches, leads out to the foot-hills and "Altadena," which is often spoken of as recalling the handsome residences along the Riviera.

The street cars which go from the station toward the mountains bear on each the words, "This Car for the Poppy Fields," and they are a sight worth seeing. Mrs. Kellog describes this flower more perfectly than any artist could paint it: "Think of finest gold, of clearest lemon, of deepest orange on silkiest texture, just bedewed with a frost-like sheen, a silvery film, and you have a faint impression of what an eschscholtzia is. Multiply this impression by acres of waving color." And in February this may sometimes be seen. It has been well chosen for the State flower.

If consumptives must go away from the comforts of home, this is a haven of rest for them. In a lateMedical RecordI see that a physician deprecates the custom of sending hopeless cases to the high altitudes of Colorado, where the poor victim gasps out a few weeks or months of existence. "If such cases as the above must be sent from home, as we sometimes think here, to rid their home physicians of the annoyance of their presence, they should be sent to Florida or Southern California, where at least they may be chloroformed off into eternity by a soothing climate, and not suffer an actual shortening of their days from a climate acting on a radically different principle and entirely unsuited to them."

This is a bit of the shady side after all the sunlight. It is a place for the invalid to rejoice in, and those in robust health can find enough to do to employ all their energies.

The "Tournament of Roses" last winter was a grand success, praised by all. The "Pageant of Roses" was celebrated here lately, and I cannot give you a better idea of it than by copying the synopsis.

Imagine the opera-house trimmed inside with wreaths and festoons and bouquets of roses—a picture in itself; audience in full evening dress, each lady carrying roses, each man with a rose for a boutonnière.

The dancing in costume was exquisitely graceful, and the evolutions and figures admirably exact—no mistake, nothing amateurish about the whole performance.

PART FIRST.Los Flores, a garden in the Crown of the Valley. Goddess Flora and her pages asleep. Harlequin, the magic spirit, enters, produces by incantation the rain and summons the maiden Spring, who rouses the Goddess and her pages. The Goddess commands the Harlequin to usher in the Pageant of Roses. Enter the Red or Colonial Roses; march and form for the reception and dance of the Ladies of the Minuet. Retire. Harlequin, at the request of the Goddess, summons the Gold of Ophirs, bearing urn as offering to the Goddess, when is performed the dance of the Orient, including solo. Curtain falls on tableau.PART SECOND.Same garden. Goddess on her throne, surrounded by her pages. She summons the Harlequin, who in turn brings the Roses of Castile. They bring offering of flowers to the Goddess, and perform a dance.Goddess again summons Harlequin, who, by great effort, brings the Roses of the Snow, or the Little Girls from Boston, led by Frost Maiden. They perform a dance and retire. Both Harlequins enter, perform a dance, and command the blooming of the Pink Rose Buds. Pink Rose Buds enter without offering for the Goddess, and prevail upon the Harlequins to help them out of their difficulties. The Harlequins send Poppies for the great La France Rose Buds as an offering, and perform "The Transformation of the Rose." Rose Buds dance and are joined by the little Roses in the Snow. All dance and retire. Enter White Harlequin, who calls for the White Rose dance by the Greek maidens. They perform ceremonies and deck the altar of their Goddess, dance and retire. Curtain.PART THIRD.Grand march. Tableau, with falling Rose petals, in the magic cañon.

PART FIRST.

Los Flores, a garden in the Crown of the Valley. Goddess Flora and her pages asleep. Harlequin, the magic spirit, enters, produces by incantation the rain and summons the maiden Spring, who rouses the Goddess and her pages. The Goddess commands the Harlequin to usher in the Pageant of Roses. Enter the Red or Colonial Roses; march and form for the reception and dance of the Ladies of the Minuet. Retire. Harlequin, at the request of the Goddess, summons the Gold of Ophirs, bearing urn as offering to the Goddess, when is performed the dance of the Orient, including solo. Curtain falls on tableau.

PART SECOND.

Same garden. Goddess on her throne, surrounded by her pages. She summons the Harlequin, who in turn brings the Roses of Castile. They bring offering of flowers to the Goddess, and perform a dance.

Goddess again summons Harlequin, who, by great effort, brings the Roses of the Snow, or the Little Girls from Boston, led by Frost Maiden. They perform a dance and retire. Both Harlequins enter, perform a dance, and command the blooming of the Pink Rose Buds. Pink Rose Buds enter without offering for the Goddess, and prevail upon the Harlequins to help them out of their difficulties. The Harlequins send Poppies for the great La France Rose Buds as an offering, and perform "The Transformation of the Rose." Rose Buds dance and are joined by the little Roses in the Snow. All dance and retire. Enter White Harlequin, who calls for the White Rose dance by the Greek maidens. They perform ceremonies and deck the altar of their Goddess, dance and retire. Curtain.

PART THIRD.

Grand march. Tableau, with falling Rose petals, in the magic cañon.

And not a word yet of The Raymond, that popular house set upon a hill that commands a view hard to equal. The house is always filled to overflowing, and this year General Wentworth tells me the business has been better than ever. This famous resort is in East Pasadena, and has its own station. It is always closed in April, just at the time when there is the most to see and enjoy, and the flowers are left to bloom unseen.

The other fine hotel here, named for its owner, Colonel Green of "August Flower" fame, is on ground eight feet higher, although by the conformation of the land it does not look so.

Many prefer to be in the town and nearer the mountains, and this house proving insufficient for its patrons, an addition four times the size of the present building is being added in semi-Moorish architecture, at a cost of $300,000.

That item shows what an experienced man of business thinks about the future of Pasadena.

The town is full of pleasant boarding-houses, as Mrs. Dexter's, Mrs. Bangs's, and Mrs. Roberts's, and many enjoy having rooms at one house and taking meals at another. You can spend as much or as little as you choose. At Mrs. Snyder's I found simple but delicious old-fashioned home-cooking at most reasonable rates.

And still more? Yes, the Public Library must be mentioned, the valuable collections I was permitted to see, the old mission of San Gabriel three miles away, and then I shall give the next chapter to my brother, who spent a week on Mt. Wilson, and came down wonderfully benefited even by that short stay. One invalid he met there had gained four pounds in as many days. His ambition now is to open a law office up among the clouds and transact business by telephone, saying the fact that his clients could not see him would be no disadvantage.

While he is discoursing I will be studying the history of the Indian baskets and report later.

"On every height there lies repose."

At Pasadena the mountain wall which guards the California of the South stands very near and looks down with pride upon the blooming garden below. The mountains which belong especially to Pasadena are but three miles away. Their average height exceeds slightly that of the Mt. Washington range in New Hampshire. The Sierra Madre system, of which they form a part, contains some peaks considerably higher.

Farther to the East, "Old Baldy"—Mt. San Antonio—raises its snowy summit to a height just close enough to ten thousand feet to test the veracity of its admirers. It is about ten miles from Pasadena by the eyes, but would be twenty by the feet, if they could walk an air line.

To the south and east of "Old Baldy" is Mt. San Jacinto, 12,000 feet above the Pacific, upon which it looks, in the far distance.

The majestic mountain wall, almost bending over the homes of Pasadena, with their vines and fig trees, their roses and lilies, their orchards of orange and lemon, and the distant snow-clad peaks glittering in the gentle sunshine, combine to form a perfect picture. There are detailed descriptions from the pens of those who feel an unctuous joy in painting the lily, kalsomining the calla, and adding perfumes to the violet, the rose, and the orange.

The "Pasadena Alps" are so smeared with oleaginous gush that I had conceived against them a sort of antipathy, which was not diminished by their barren, treeless appearance.

As Nature reasserted herself, this artificial nausea wore away. I took a drive to Millard's Cañon, and was surprised at finding a charming wooded road winding up through the cañon along a mountain stream. From the end of the carriage-road we walked half a mile to a picturesque waterfall having a sheer descent of perhaps forty feet.

This revelation inspired a drive to Eaton's Cañon, where I found similar attractions, and which led me to the new Mt. Wilson trail, or "Toll Road." I made inquiries, inspected the small but substantial mules which do the pedestrian part of the trip, went up the trail a short distance, and, after many assurances, arranged to make the ascent.

In fact, this trail is remarkably well built. It winds up the mountain by a gradual and even ascent of nine miles, the grade nowhere exceeding ten per cent. There are two camps near the summit, open all the year. You may return the same day or stay for the remainder of your life.

Take little luggage, of course: a heavy overcoat or wrap, and a small grip. In the winter the nights are cold, and clouds and rain are not unlikely to present the compliments of the season.

The mountains of California are as topsy-turvy as its rivers. We used to learn in our physical geographies that as the traveller ascends a mountain the large trees continually give place to smaller—shrinking at last to stunted shrubs, with a summit of barren rock.

As our mules plod up Mt. Wilson, the trail at first is sandy, and the mountain's flanks a barren waste, with thin covering of cactus and chaparral. Half a mile from the starting-point appear small bushes, which grow larger as we move upward. The trail turns into a cañon, and becomes a hard, cool pathway leading up through small live-oaks and high growth of bushes. We begin to see slender pines and larger oaks. Now the trail leaves the cañon and winds out upon the open mountain-side. Here the chaparral is green and flourishing.

We wind abruptly into a cañon. Bushes of wild lilac overhang the path. The manzanita reminds one of lilies of the valley transplanted to California and growing on a bush. Down to the torrent at the bottom of the cañon, and up its steep side, are large pines and live-oaks, mountain mahogany and cedar. Near the summit we wind along a precipice where the trail is blasted from the solid rock. Even here, any one who is disposed to "look aloft" will see pine trees hanging over his head hundreds of feet above.

The summit is a forest of towering trees. On the topmost ridges are the monarchs of the mountains—oaks three and four feet, and pines four and five feet in diameter. Of course this increase in the size of timber is noticeably uniform, only where the soil and natural features of the mountains favor it. But the summit of Mt. Wilson, at least, resembles a picnic ground raised nearly six thousand feet above the sea. The air is light, dry, and exhilarating. The ground is carpeted with pine needles. Delicate wild-flowers are seen in their season. In April I found wild peas in blossom, harebells, morning-glories, poppies, and many varieties of yellow flowers. I also saw hummingbirds, butterflies, swallows, and squirrels, and here and there patches of plain white old-fashioned snow. It is a novel spectacle to see a small boy snowballing a butterfly. In the spring even dead trees are glorified with a mantle of golden green moss. It covers the trunks of some of the living pines, making an artistic background for the deep green of their boughs.

From this upside-down mountain we look down upon rivers flowing bottom side up. And that is California.

As to the safety of the ascent, no one need hesitate who is free from settled prejudice against a side-hill. You will soon let the reins hang from the pommel of the saddle. One who chooses may jump off and walk for a change. Only, if you are at the end of the procession, be careful to keep between your mule and the foot of the mountain; otherwise he will wheel around and wend his way homeward. If toiling along near the summit, absorbed in the beauties of the prospect, it might be awkward to feel the halter jerked from your hand and to see the mule galloping around a sharp bend with your satchel, hung loosely over the pommel, bobbing violently up and down, and perhaps hurled off into space as the intelligent animal rounds the corner.

Yes, it is safe, but there is a spice of excitement about it. I was nervous at first, and seeing that the mule wished to nibble such herbage as offered itself, I had thought it well to humor him. At a narrow space with sharp declivity below, the beast fixed his jaws upon a small tough bush on the upper bank. As he warmed up to the work, his hind feet worked around toward the edge of the chasm. The bush began to come out by the roots, which seemed to be without end. As the weight of the mule was thrown heavily backward, I looked forward with some apprehension to the time when the root should finally give way: I saw now that the mule had fixed his stubborn jaws upon the entrails of the mountain, and expected every instant to see other vital organs brought to light. I dared not and could not move. The root gave way, allowing the mule to fall backward, and startling him with a rattling down of stones and gravel. One foot slipped over the edge, but three stuck to the path, and the majority prevailed. After that I saw it was safer to let my faithful beast graze on the outer edge. All went well until he became absorbed in following downward the foliage of a bush which grew up from below. As he stretched his neck farther and farther down, I saw that he was bending his forelegs. His shoulders sank more and more. There was nothing between me and the sea-level except the mule's ears. By frantic exertions I worked myself backward, and was sliding down behind—too late. The bush broke, causing the mule to fall back forcibly against the inner bank, with myself sandwiched between the adamantine wall of the mountain and the well-shod heels of the mule. The animal, being as much scared as myself, started up the trail at a gallop. I had saved my life but lost my mule. I have no taste for overtaking runaway mules on a steep and interminable up-grade. It is a taste which must be acquired. But then, of course, the mule would turn after his first alarm and tear down to the stable. I resolved to push on in the hope of finding a wider portion of the path, or at least of meeting the animal before he had acquired uncontrollable momentum.

At the very first turn a boy appeared hurrying back with my palfry. The mule had galloped on until he overtook the rest of the party, who had sent him back in haste, while they followed on as quickly as possible.

It flashed upon my mind that the mule understands his business. We imagine, egotistically, that the mule is all the time thinking about us, and that he may take umbrage at some fancied slight and leap with us down the abyss. Now the mule does not care to make the descent in that way. He is thinking about himself just like the rest of us. We are only so much freight packed upon his back.

The foregoing narrative may be exaggerated in some details, but the essential facts remain, that the mule has a healthy appetite and that he looks out for himself.

A little further on I had an opportunity to judge how a passenger would conduct himself if he should be thrown from the trail. At the point where the slope of the mountains is most abrupt, certain repairs had lately been made upon the trail, and a man was now prying large stones over the edge. They rolled and tumbled down, taking wild leaps into the air and plunging from rock to rock. After they disappeared in the woods we could hear them crashing and clattering down the cañon. A small avalanche of broken fragments followed in their wake.

It must have been a fine sight when the blasting was first done in the side of the rocky precipice: when huge masses of rock, half as big as a house, were rent from the side of the mountain and thundered down with frightful crash, cutting off huge trees and shaking the very mountains. And now I will say again that the trail is wide and safe; the slopes on the side are seldom very steep, and the mules could not be pushed over by any available power.

Some people, in fact, prefer the old trail because it is more wild and romantic and not so well kept. The new road has enough picturesque features to satisfy me.

I remember when the valley came in sight again, after half an hour's climbing, the first objects to catch my eye were the storage reservoirs, which dot the valley and are used in irrigation. Their regular shapes and the margins of masonry about them give them, from the mountains, the appearance of mirrors. One seemed almost directly below. Probably it was at least a hundred feet in length. In the form of a rectangle with rounded corners, it was the exact counterpart of a framed mirror. The surface was like polished glass, and trees upon the bank were reflected with beautiful distinctness.

After another half-hour's ride comes a glimpse in the other direction. Through a gap in the mountains we look for a moment behind the hills of Pasadena into the heart of the Sierra Madre. Vistas of mountain-sides are seen on either hand, one beyond the other, the long slope of one slightly overlapping that of its nearer neighbor, offering for our inspection a succession of blue tints, becoming more and more delicate in the distance till they melt into the sky.

The mules care less for visible azure than for edible verdure, and soon carried us by this picture. Far up the trail is a pretty scene upon our own mountain. Suddenly we came out of the cool, wild forest upon a little level spot, by the spring of the mountain stream. Here is an old camp with green grass growing up about the deserted building. After a final winding journey around the steep southerly side of the mountain, came the first full view of the wild chaos of broken ranges toward the desert. Then follows a gradual shaded ascent to the camp. The world has varied panoramas of mountain scenery "set off" by the glitter of snowy peaks. In California there are many accessible summits rising from half-tropical valleys. Mountains which overlook the sea are without number. There may be in America other points from which one may look down upon a "city of homes," and a "business centre" with sixty thousand busy inhabitants. I do not know any spot apart from the mountains of Pasadena where you may put all of these in combination. From the northerly peak of Mt. Wilson to the southerly peak of Mt. Harvard is a distance by trail along the ridge of perhaps three miles, offering a variety of points of view. To the north and east you may look down into a gorge two thousand feet beneath, from which rises on the gentle breeze the mingled voice of brawling brook and murmuring pines. Beyond is a confusion of green mountains, from which a range of white summits rises in the calm distance. Toward the south are solitary peaks with halos of fleecy cloud.

As for the prospect in the other direction, it shows at once that the way to print upon the mind a map of California's physical formation is to see ita labird's-eye—as the short path to acquaintance with a great city is a vertical one—to the tower of the City Hall.

One would require but a few more well-selected stations to map out all of Southern California.

The several valleys of which Los Angeles is the commercial capital are stretched out before us like perfectly level plains, divided by ranges of hills. In the distance lies the glistening Pacific, with the blue outlines of Catalina and more distant islands etched upon the western sky. This picture is sometimes so distinct that you find yourself trying to recognize acquaintances on the streets of Pasadena. Again everything is dreamy with haze. Another morning you may stumble out trying to rub yesterday's sunburn from your eyes, and find everything below curtained by a bank of snowy fog. As for myself, I enjoy the prospect most when I cannot see it at all—that is, at night.

There is a varied interchange of signals between the mountains and the valley. At noon the people here talk with their Pasadena friends by gleaming flashlight. Then there are the reservoirs scattered over the valley. In certain lights they are not seen at all, but in line with the sun they send up great flash signals themselves, and just after sunset they are always seen reflecting the calm twilight. An hour after sunset our camp-fire is lighted. As we stand by it, the horizon seems to have retired for the night. There is continuous sky, shading without a break into the shadows below. Gazing dreamily down, I am startled by the flashing forth of a hundred brilliant stars from what was the valley below. They disappear for a moment and then blaze out and become a permanent constellation. These stars are too numerous to resemble any known constellation. I concluded after a little that the mighty Orion had drawn his sword and slain the Great Bear; that the lion had rashly interfered and his carcass had been dragged to that of the bear, and that the exhausted Orion had thrown himself wearily upon them to rest. And there are the Pleiades close by; with feminine curiosity they have come as near as they dared, to see what it is all about.

Those wishing a scientific explanation of these phenomena must consult the Pasadena Electric Lighting Company, except as to the stray Pleiades, which seem to have some connection with the lights of the Raymond Hotel.

But what is that dim and curious meteor slowly moving toward the spot where Los Angeles used to be? Perhaps it is the headlight which heralds the coming of the belated overland train. Suddenly I see out of the darkness beyond Pasadena the blazing forth of a majestic cross, of wavering, uneven outline, but made up of crowded multitudes of sparkling, glittering, scintillating stars. Los Angeles has substantially the same system of street illumination as Pasadena.

You will note that I have abstained from hauling the sun above the eastern Sierras in the morning, and from tucking it under the Pacific at night. This rearrangement of ponderous constellations is all that my strength and my other engagements will permit. Those who want to know the glories of the sunset and moonlight must climb Mt. Wilson themselves.

Not the kite-shaped track of new-made trotting records and pneumatic tires, but a track upon which you may pass a pleasant day riding after the iron horse.

The route extends easterly from Los Angeles to San BernardinoviaPasadena. Beyond San Bernardino is the "loop," which will take us twelve miles farther east to Mentone, and around an oval curve back to San Bernardino. Thence we kite down to Riverside, then southwesterly to Orange, and so up to Los Angeles. Leaving Los Angeles at 9 A.M. you may return by 4 P.M., with time for dinner at San Bernardino.

Taking the traveller back and forth across the central part of Southern California as it does, the kite-shaped trip is naturally a favorite with tourists, and, as its "catchy" name indicates, it caters to that element of travel. One always sees also anxious and eager "prospectors" or expectant settlers, who lose no opportunity to inquire all about citrus and deciduous fruits, and prices of land and of water for irrigating the same. This excursion will show you the heart of the orange belt or belts of Southern California, especially on the northern and eastern sides of the "kite."

The schedule of trains allows of convenient stop-overs, and several may be made to advantage.

Pasadena and Riverside of course must not be passed by. A short stay at Orange or Anaheim gives an interesting glimpse of a region where orange culture is combined with that of other citrus fruits, as well as the grape and olive.

Aside from these points, the most interesting feature of the trip is the "loop" beyond San Bernardino. The town of San Bernardino is a thriving business centre. Perhaps it is on this account that its appearance from the car window is not as attractive as that of Riverside or Pasadena, which from all points of view seem peacefully embowered in half-tropic foliage. But away from the railroads San Bernardino also has its charming residence district, with the same general characteristics as its sister towns.

Upon the "loop" a stop should be made at Redlands, an interesting spot, where the successful culture of oranges is carried on at a much higher elevation than was thought possible until a few years ago. There is never any frost there to injure the fruit. The Hotel Terracina, on the heights, has a wondrous view, and the Smiley brothers, of "Lake Mohunk" celebrity, have fine grounds and homes on Cañon Crest, and are thinking of building a hotel.

The circuit of the "loop" reminds me of roving around upon the rim of a very large and shallow spoon, tilted upward toward Mentone at the smaller end. San Bernardino is 1075 feet above the sea, and Mentone 1640 feet. At that point we have nearly climbed the foothills, and are very close to the great mountains themselves. As we skim around upon the upper side of the "loop," the long gradual slope from the foot of the mountains to the stream at the centre of the valley seems an ideal conformation for leading the irrigation streams from the mountains along the rows of orange trees which will soon entirely cover this valley.

Four miles from San Bernardino is the station of Arrowhead, from which we have a near view of the peak of nature which gives the place its name. It is a bare, gravelly tract on the side of the mountain, which, in contrast with the chaparral about it, takes the shape of an Indian arrowhead with a portion of the shaft attached. Covering a large area, the arrowhead is a landmark for many miles around. I could not help thinking that if a gang of Italian laborers were employed for a few days sharpening the outline of the arrowhead by cutting away bushes along the edge, and setting out others judiciously in the converted background, the effect of this interesting natural phenomenon might be much brightened. There are hot-springs at Arrowhead, and a hotel renders the varied attractions of the place available.

While we are kiting along let me tell you what I know about baskets made by the Indian women of the Pacific Coast of now and long ago, the last considered valuable and now commanding high prices. There are several experts on this subject in Pasadena—Mrs. Lowe, ex-Mayor Lukens, Mrs. Jeanne C. Carr, and Mrs. Belle Jewett, who has the most precious collection of all.

Mrs. Lowe has gathered together for her Basement Museum, which any State would be proud to own, all that she could find of special interest relative to the Indians of California—clothing, headdress, weapons, medicine charms, money, beads, and of course many baskets, for baskets are as indispensable to the Indian as the reindeer to the Esquimau. They were used as cradles, caps for the head when carrying burdens, wardrobes for garments not in use, granaries on roof, sifters for pounded meal, for carrying water, and keeping it for use, for cooking, receptacles for money, plaques to gamble on, and so on. And the basket plays an important part in their legends and folk-lore.

Mrs. Lowe determined to preserve these specimens, as tourists were rapidly carrying away all they could find of such relics, and soon the State would be without proofs to tell how the Indian of the past lived and fed and fought, bought and sold, how he was dressed, and how he amused himself.

Mrs. Ellen B. Farr, an artist in Pasadena who is famous for her success in painting the pepper tree and the big yellow poppy, with its reddish orange line changing toward petal tips to pale lemon, has also devoted her skill to pictures of such baskets grouped effectually—baskets now scattered all over the world, each with its own history, its own individuality, and no duplicate, for no two baskets are ever exactly similar.

The true way to obtain these baskets is, go a-hunting for them, not buy them at stores. They are handed down for generations as heirlooms originally, never intended for sale, and with the needles used in weaving, made usually of a fine bone from a hawk's wing, and the gambling dice, are the carefully concealed family treasures. But sometimes by going yourself to see the aged squaws, or paying one who is familiar with their ways to explore for you, you may get a rich return. Baskets are of all sizes, from the little beauties no bigger than a teacup, woven finely and adorned with beads and bits of dyed feathers, to the granaries, or the storage baskets, holding half a ton, nine feet and nine inches in circumference, three feet deep. Mrs. Jewett showed me a photograph of one of this sort, in which she sat comfortably seated with her six-foot son and his wife. This had been in use more than fifty years, and was as fine as ever. Her one hundred and twenty-eight baskets represent twenty-eight tribes. In regard to the shapes and designs, the women seem to have copied straight from nature's patterns, as seen in acorns, pine cones, seed vessels, etc., so they are truly artists.

Figures of men are sometimes woven in: those with heads on represent the victorious warriors; those decapitated depict the braves vanquished by the fighters of their special tribe. An open palm is sometimes seen; this is an emblem of peace.

Willow wands and stiff long-stemmed grasses are gathered and dried for these baskets, then woven in coils and increased as they go on, as in a crochet stitch. It often requires a deal of coaxing and good pay to secure one of these highly prized "Coras."

The women were as devoted to gambling as the men, and made flat trays for this purpose. The dice were eight acorn shells, or half-walnut shells, first daubed over inside with pitch, and then inlaid with little shells which represented money.

I saw a tray and dice purchased most adroitly from an excited gambling party, who were at the time too much intoxicated to know exactly what they were doing. After it had been paid for the owner was implored to sit down and gamble himself, hoping in this way to win more money and get back the board. It was hard to withstand their forcible appeals, but the man ran away, and was obliged to hide all night for fear of assault. Squaws would sometimes bet pieces of flesh from their arms when their money was gone, and many of them have been seen with rows of scars on their arms for this reason. No basket can be finished by an Indian woman until she has ceased to bear children. Then her work is done.

The Japanese are famous basket-makers, but they do not far excel the best work found among these untutored workwomen.

Most curious of all is the fact that asavantconnected with the Smithsonian Institute was amazed when examining a "buck," or man's plaque, to find it almost exactly like one he had brought from northern India—similar in weaving, size, and shading.

And a lady told me that she could make herself understood by those of a certain tribe in Mexico by speaking to them in Sicilian. Which makes me think of Joel Chandler Harris and his embarrassment, after publishing his stories of "Uncle Remus," to receive letters from learned men at home and abroad, inquiring how this legend that he had given was the same as one in India, or Egypt, or Siam.

The art of basketry is rapidly deteriorating, and will soon be lost unless Indian children in the reservation are taught something of the old skill by their grandmothers, before the few now living depart for that happy, unmolested hunting-ground they like to believe in, where I do hope they will find a land all their own.

The Mexican drawn-work is seen everywhere for sale, and at moderate prices—so moderate that any one is foolish to waste eyesight in imitating it. Each stitch has a name, and is full of meaning to the patient maker.

One can easily spend a good deal for curios, such as plaques, cups, vases, napkin-rings, plates and toothpicks of orange wood, bark pin-cushions, cat's-eye pins, etchings of all the missions in India ink, wild-flower, fern, and moss work, and, perhaps most popular of all, the pictures on orange wood of the burro, the poppy, and pepper and oranges. Or, if interested in natural history, you can secure a horned toad, a centipede, or a tarantula, alive or dead, and "set up."

A horned toad is more easy to care for than the average baby alligator of Florida, and as a pet is not more exacting, as it can live six months without eating.

"Why do some women like horrible things for pets?

"Mother Eve set the example, and ever since serpents have been in the front rank of woman's eccentric loves. Cleopatra was fond of tigers and ferocious beasts, but she turned at last to a snake as the most fitting creature to do her bidding.

"Centuries ago the queens of Egypt made pets of horned toads, and the ugly little reptiles became things of state, and their lives more sacred than the highest ministers to the court. Daughters of the Nile worshipped crocodiles."

A very intelligent man, who has every reason to speak with authority about the tarantula as found in California, declares that it is not dangerous. He says they live in ground that has not been disturbed by the plough. Their hole in the ground is about three fourths of an inch in diameter and twelve or fourteen inches deep, with only a web over the top. Many tell us that the tarantula has a lid on the top of his house, but this is incorrect, as that belongs to the trap-door spider. It is sold, however, here as a tarantula's nest. This creature dislikes the winter rains as much as the tourist does, and fills up the entrance of the nest in October and November, not appearing until May. The greater number are found on adobe and clay soil. Tarantulas never come out at night; the male sometimes appears just before sundown, but the female is seldom seen away from home unless disturbed. They seem to have a model family life. Mr. Wakely, who has caught more of these spiders than any living man, does not seem to dread the job in the least. One man goes ahead and places a small red flag at the opening of the nest; the next man pours down a little water, which brings Mr. T—— up to see what is the matter, and then Mr. W—— quietly secures it with a pair of pincers and puts it in a bottle, and has thus succeeded in catching hundreds, but has never had a bite. (This last line reminds me of the amateur angler.) He tells me that there seems to be a general impression that a tarantula will jump into the second-story window of a house, and, springing upon the neck of a young lady sitting there, will kill her instantly. He has never seen one jump three inches. If one leg is broken off nature soon provides another. The Texas variety is believed to be more dangerous. I do not know.

There are rattlesnakes to be seen and heard about the mountains in hot weather.

As to buying precious stones, especially opals, in this part of the country, I think it is wisest to buy opals in the real old Mexico for yourselves, often very cheaply. The prices rise rapidly here. A water opal, however beautiful, has no commercial value. It is but an imprisoned soap-bubble, and is apt to crumble. There are stores where pretty colored stones can be bought, but the majority get cheated as to price.

But we are not paying proper attention to the "panorama." Many have been led to settle here by taking this picturesque trip; and with plenty of water oranges pay splendidly. So there is substantial wealth, ever on the increase, in these new towns.

By the way, were you ever asked to be a "panorama"? I once had that honor. A lady came to my house one Sunday morning, and explained that her husband was dreadfully depressed over a fall in stocks or something, and she knew I could be "so amusing" if I chose, and wouldn't I get into her carriage and go with her to amuse said husband, and be a sort of panorama for the poor man? "I don't want him to be in the panorama," she said, "nor of the panorama; I want you just to be the panorama by yourself." I was forced to decline this singular appeal, glad as I should have been to cheer her dumpy spouse.

Why, oh why is it, that if persons have the slightest power of being what is vaguely called "entertaining," they are expected to be ever on duty at the call of any one who feels a desire for inexpensive diversion?

At one hotel I sat by the side of an odd old man, a retired tobacco merchant of great wealth, who was ready for conversation with all newcomers, and who seemed to feel that I was not doing my full share as an entertainer for the masses. He also had the unusual habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, whether complimentary or otherwise, in frank soliloquy, like that absent-minded Lord Dudley whom Sydney Smith alludes to, as meeting and greeting him with effusive cordiality, and then saying,sotto voce, "I suppose I shall have to ask this man home to dinner."

But my friend at my elbow had very little of thesottoin hisvoce. He began in this way:

"Ahem! I hear you can be funny." No response from person addressed. Then to himself: "I don't much believe she can do anything—don't look like it." To me: "Well, now, if youcanbe funny, why don't you?" I could not help laughing then. "Yes, if you can, you ought to go into the parlor every night and show what you can do, and amuse us. It is your duty. Why, I told Quilletts—you know 'bout Quilletts? awfully funny feller; good company, you see—says I, 'Quilletts, I like you. Now, if you'll stay I'll give you a cottage, rent free, all summer (I've got an island home—lots of us fellers on it—great times we have); but you must agree to be funny every night, and keep the ball a-rollin'.' Now we want you to get up and do something to entertain the guests. We want to be amused—somethin' that will set us laughin'!"

I replied: "Mr. Brushwood, I understand you are a dealer in tobacco?"

"Yes, mum; and you won't find finer tobacker anywhere in this world than what's got my name on it. Here's a picture of my store. Why, Brushwood's tobacker is known all over the United States."

"Yes? Well, when I notice you freely distributing that tobacco, bunches of your choicest brands, papers of the very best for chewing, cigarettes by the dozen, in the parlor evenings, I'll follow on just behind you, and try to amuse as a condensed circus. I'm not lacking in philanthropy. I only need to be roused by your noble example, sustained by your influence."

Brushwood looked disgusted, grunted his disapproval, backed his chair out from the table, and as he walked to the door of the dining-room many heard him mutter, "She's a queer dick; don't amount to much, anyway; thought so when I first saw her; impudent, too!"

As the farmer remarked when he first encountered a sportsman dude, "What things a feller does meet when he hasn't got his gun!"

But the train is slowing up, and see, Judge Brown, my old friend of The Anchorage, is looking for us. No! No "Glenwood"; no "Arlington"; no "kerridge"!

Back to Index Next