"Knowest thou the land where the lemon trees bloom,Where the golden orange grows in the deep thickets' gloom,Where a wind ever soft from the blue heavens blows,And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose?"
"Knowest thou the land where the lemon trees bloom,Where the golden orange grows in the deep thickets' gloom,Where a wind ever soft from the blue heavens blows,And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose?"
Yes, that describes Riverside, and reads like a prophecy. If Pasadena is a big garden with pretty homes scattered all through its shade and flowers, then Riverside is an immense orange grove, having one city-like street, with substantial business blocks and excellent stores, two banks, one in the Evans block, especially fine in all its architecture and arrangements, and the rest is devoted by the land-owners to raising oranges and making them pay. You will see flowers enough to overwhelm a Broadway florist, every sort of cereal, every fruit that grows, in prime condition for the table ten months out of the twelve. Three hundred sunny days are claimed here out of the three hundred and sixty-five. They are once in a while bothered by a frost, but that is "unusual." Before 1870 this was a dusty desert of decomposed granite. What has caused the change? Scientific irrigation and plenty of it. Or, as Grant Allen puts it, "mud." He says: "Mud is the most valuable material in the world. It is by mud we live; without it we should die. Mud is filling up the lakes. Mud created Egypt, and mud created Lombardy."
Yes, one can get rich here by turning dust into mud. It is said to be the richest town "per capita" in all California of the same size, $1100 being the average allowance for each person. This is solemnly vouched for by reliable citizens. And they have no destitute poor—a remarkable record. The city and district are said to enjoy an annual income of $1,500,000 from the fruit alone, and there is a million of unused money in the two banks.
Irrigation is better than rain, for the orange growers can turn on a shower or a stream whenever and wherever needed. It requires courage and faith to go straight into a desert with frowning mountains, big, little, and middle-sized, all about, and not an available drop of water, and say, "I'm going to settle right here and turn this desert into a beautiful home, and start a prosperous, wealthy city. All that this rocky, barren plain needs is water and careful cultivation, and I will give it both." That was Judge Brown's decision, and the result shows his wisdom. No one agreed with him; it was declared that colonists could not be induced to try it. But he could not relinquish the idea. He was charmed by the dry, balmy air, so different from Los Angeles. He saw the smooth plain was well adapted for irrigation, and Santa Ana could be made to furnish all the water needed. So that it is really to him we owe the pleasure of seeing these orchards, vineyards, avenues, and homes. Where once the coyote and jack-rabbit had full sway, land now sells at prices from $400 to $3000 per acre. There are no fences—at least, there is but one in all Riverside. You see everywhere fine, well-trimmed cypress hedges with trees occasionally cut in fantastic, elaborate designs. There are many century plants about the grounds; they blossom in this climate after twelve years, and die after the tall homely flower has come to maturity. The roadsides have pretty flowers planted all along, giving a gay look, and the very weeds just now are covered with blossoms. Irrigation is carried on most scientifically, the water coming from a creek and the "cienaga," which I will explain later. There are several handsome avenues shaded with peppers, and hedges twenty feet high, through which are obtained peeps at enchanting homes; but the celebrated drive which all tourists are expected to take is that to and fro through Magnolia Avenue, twelve miles long. The name now seems illy chosen, as only a few magnolia trees were originally planted at each corner, and these have mostly died, so that the whole effect is more eucalyptical, palmy, and pepperaneous than it is magnolious. People come here "by chance the usual way," and buy because they see the chance to make money. You are told pretty big stories of successes; the failures are not alluded to.
I saw a large and prosperous place belonging to a woman of business ability, who came out all alone, took up a government grant, ploughed and planted and irrigated, sent for a sister to help her, sold land at great prices, and is now a wealthy woman. If I had not passed through such depressing and enthusiasm-subduing experiences as an agriculturist in the East I might be tempted here. I did look with interest at the ostrich farms, and had visions of great profits from feathers, eggs, and egg-shells. But it takes a small fortune to get started in that business, as eggs are twenty dollars each, and the birds are sometimes five hundred dollars apiece. And they are subject to rheumatism and a dozen other diseases, and a blow from a kicking bird will kill one. I concluded to let that dream be unrealized. Did you ever hear of the nervous invalid who was told by his physician to buy a Barbary ostrich and imitate him exactly for three months? It was a capital story. The lazy dyspeptic was completely cured. As a hen woman I will remarken passantthat it is hard to raise poultry in this part of California. The climate is too exhilarating, and if the head of each chicken does not get a drop of oil at once it dies of brain disease.
Corn does not thrive. Mr. Brown at first put down ten acres to corn. It looked promising, but grew all to stalk. These stalks were over twelve feet high, but corn was of no value, so he sold the stalks for eighty dollars, and started his oranges.
The English are largely interested here, and have invested two or three millions, which will pay large interest to their grandchildren. Their long avenue is loyally named "Victoria." A thrifty Canadian crazed by the "boom," the queerest mental epidemic or delusion that ever took hold of sensible people, bought some stony land just under Rubidoux Mountain for $4000. It was possibly worth $100, but in those delirious days many did much worse. It is amazing to see what hard work and water and good taste will do for such a place. He has blasted the rocks, made fountains and cisterns, planted several acres of strawberries, set out hundreds of orange trees, has a beautiful garden, two pretty cottages, and some day he will get back his original price for a building site, for the view is grand.
Riverside, while leading the orange-producing section of Southern California, is not exactly the location which would have been selected by the original settlers had they possessed the experience of the producers of today. The oranges do not have to be washed, as in some other places; they are not injured by smut or scale; the groves are faultless in size of trees, shape, and taste of fruit. One orange presented to me weighed thirty-one ounces. But the growers, having lost $1,000,000 by Jack Frost several years ago, are obliged now to resort to the use of lighted tar-pots on cold nights to make a dense smudge to keep the temperature above the danger line. One man uses petroleum in hundred-gallon casks, one for each acre, from which two pipes run along between the rows of trees, with half a dozen elbows twenty feet apart, over which are flat sheet-iron pans, into which the oil spatters as it vaporizes. An intensely hot flame keeps off the frost. This I do not hear spoken of at Riverside; you must go to a rival for any disagreeable information. At Pasadena their severe winds are called "Riversiders"; at Anaheim they are "Santa Anas"; and friends write me from damp Los Angeles to the dry air of Riverside, "How can you stay in that 'damp' place?" The inhabitants of Riverside do not concede that Pasadena is a place for orange growers. At Redlands, luckily above frost terrors, the terrible losses at Riverside from that trouble are profusely narrated. San Diego gets its share of humorous belittlement from all. You hear the story quoted of the shrewd Chinee who went to that city to look for business, where one hears much of future developments, but did not settle, saying, "It has too muchee bym-bye." Friends, and especially hotel proprietors, exclaim in disgusted astonishment, "What! going to Riverside? Why, there's nothing there but oranges."
I find more: fine and charming drives, scenery that differs from that of Pasadena, "that poem of nature set to music beneath the swaying rhythm of the pine forests of the lofty Sierra Madres," but is equally enjoyable and admirable.
Still, above all, and permeating every other interest, is theorange. As to dampness, a physician threatened with consumption, and naturally desirous of finding the driest air, began while at Coronado Beach a simple but sure test for comparative degrees of "humidity" by just hanging a woolen stocking out of his window at night. At that place it was wet all through, quite moist at Los Angeles, very much less so at Pasadena, dry as a bone or red herring or an old-fashioned sermon at Riverside. Stockings will tell! (From April to September is really the best time to visit Coronado.) I experienced a very sudden change from a warm, delightful morning to an afternoon so penetrating by cold that I really suffered during a drive, although encased in the heaviest of Jaeger flannels, a woolen dress, and a heavy wrap. I thought of the rough buffalo coat my uncle, a doctor, used to put on when called out on a winter night in New Hampshire, and wished I was enveloped in something like it, with a heated freestone, for feet and a hot potato for each hand. If I can make my readers understand that these sudden changes make flannels necessary, and that one needs to be as careful here as in Canada as regards catching cold from night air and these unexpected rigors, I shall feel, as the old writers used to say, "that I have not written entirely in vain."
In one day you can sit under the trees in a thin dress and be too warm if the sun is at its best, and then be half frozen two hours later if the wind is in earnest and the sun has retired. In the sun, Paradise; in shade, protect yourself!
"The Schoolmistress Abroad."
All through Southern California I hear words of whose meaning I have no idea until they are explained. For instance, a friend wrote from San Diego in February: "Do not longer delay your coming; the mesas are already bright with wild-flowers." A mesa is a plateau, or upland, or high plain. And then there are fifty words in common use retained from the Spanish rule that really need a glossary. As, arroyo, a brook or creek; and arroyo seco, a dry creek or bed of extinct river.
Alameda, an avenue.
Alamitos, little cotton-wood.
Alamo, the cotton-wood; in Spain, the poplar.
Alma, soul.
That is all I have learned in A's. Then for B's.
I asked at Riverside what name they had for a big, big rock that rose right out of the plain, and was told it was a "butte." That gave a meaning to Butte City, and was another lesson.
Banos means baths, and barranca is a small ravine.
Then, if we go on alphabetically, cajon, pronouncedcahone, is a box.
Calaveras, skull.
Campo, plain.
Ciénaga, a marshy place.
Campo sancto, cemetery.
Canyon or cañon, gulch.
Cruz, cross.
Colorado, red.
Some of the Spanish words are so musical it is a pleasure to repeat them aloud; as:
Ensenada, bright.
Escondido, hidden.
Fresno means ash.
I inquired the meaning of "Los Gatos," and was kindly informed it was "The Gates," but it really is "The Cats."
Goleta, the name of another town, means schooner.
The Spanishjnearly always has the sound ofh.
Jacinto, Hyacinth.
José, Joseph.
Lago is lake; pond, laguna; and for a little lake the pretty name lagunita. "Lagunita Rancho" is the name of an immense fruit ranch in Vacaville—and, by the way, vaca is cow.
Madre is mother; nevada, snowy.
San Luis Obispo is San Luis the Bishop.
El Paso is The Pass.
Pueblo, a town.
Pinola is parched corn ground fine between stones, eaten with milk.
Pinoche, chopped English walnuts cooked in brown sugar—a nice candy.
Rancho, a farm; and rio, river.
Everything is a ranch out here; the word in the minds of many stands for home. A little four-year-old boy was overheard praying the other day that when he died the Lord would take him to His ranch.
Sacramento is the sacrament.
Sierra, saw-toothed; an earthquake is a temblor.
San and Santa, the masculine and feminine form of saint.
As the men who laid out a part of New York evidently travelled with a classical dictionary, and named the towns from that, as Rome, Syracuse, Palmyra, Utica, so the devout Spanish explorer named the places where he halted by the name of the saint whose name was on the church calendar for that day. And we have San Diego (St. James), San Juan (St. John), San Luis, San José, San Pedro, Santa Inez, Santa Maria, Santa Clara, and, best of all, Santa Barbara, to which town we are now going.
The Mexican dialect furnishes words which are now permanently incorporated in our common speech; as:
Adobe, sun-dried brick.
Cañon, gorge.
Tules, rush or water-weed. (Bret Harte'sApostle of the Tules.)
Bonanza, originallyfair weather at sea, nowgood fortune in mining.
Fandango, dance of the people.
Corral, a place to collect stock. (A farmer of the West never says cow-pen, or barnyard, or farmyard, but corral.)
Cascarones, egg-shells filled with finely cut gold or silver paper, or perfumes, broken on head of young man, in friendly banter or challenge to a dance.
Burro, small kind of donkey.
Broncho, wild, untamed animal.
Sombrero, hat.
Rebozo, scarf.
Serape, blanket.
Lariat, rawhide rope.
Hacienda, estate.
While we are rattling along there is so little to see until we reach the ocean, that we may as well be recalling a few more facts worth knowing. At Riverside I learned that the leaf of the orange tree was larger when it first came out than later. It grows smaller as it matures. And most people say that the fig tree has no blossom, the fruit coming right out of the branch. But there is a blossom, and you have to cut the fruit open to find it. Just split a young fig in two and notice the perfect blossom in the centre.
They say it takes two Eastern men to believe a Californian, but it only takes one Eastern woman to tell true stories which do seem almost too big for belief. One man got lost in a mustard field, and he was on horseback too.
I saw at San Diego a tomato vine only eight months old, which was nineteen feet high and twenty-five feet wide, and loaded full of fruit in January. A man picking the tomatoes on a stepladder added to the effect. And a Gold of Ophir rose-bush at Pasadena which had 200,000 blossoms. This is vouched for by its owner, a retired missionary, who cannot be doubted. There are truly true pumpkins that weigh 256 pounds and are seven feet in circumference; cucumbers seven feet long; seven beets weighed 500 pounds; three bites to a strawberry; and the eucalyptus shoots often grow twenty feet the first year, carrying with them in their rapid ascension the stakes to which they were tied. All this is true. But here are two stories which may be doubtful, just to show what anecdotes are current in California. "A man was on top of a California pumpkin chopping off a piece with an axe, when it dropped in. He pulled up his ladder and put it down on the inside to look for it. While groping about he met a man, who exclaimed, 'Hello! What are you doing here?' 'Looking for my axe.' 'Gosh! you might as well give that up. I lost my horse and cart in here three days ago, and haven't found 'em yet!'"
"A farmer raised one thousand bushels of popcorn and stored it in a barn. The barn caught fire, and the corn began to pop and filled a ten-acre field. An old mare in a neighboring pasture had defective eyesight, saw the corn, thought it was snow, and lay down and froze to death."
As to serious farming, and how it pays in this part of the State, I have clipped several paragraphs from the papers, and will give three as samples of the whole. I desire also to communicate the cheerful news that there are no potato bugs to make life seem too hard to bear.
"RAISED ON TWENTY ACRES.
"How much land do I need in California? is a question often asked. The answer is readily made: as much as you can profitably and economically work. A gentleman has made the following exhibit in the Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce: 'Raised on twenty acres of ground, 2500 boxes of oranges, 1500 boxes of lemons, 37,000 pounds of grapes, 2000 pounds of pears, 35,000 pounds of apples, 15,000 pounds of berries, black and red, 1000 pounds of English walnuts. Besides nectarines, apricots, plums, three crops of potatoes, 500 pounds of crab-apples, and one acre of alfalfa kept for cows, and flowers of different varieties. These oranges are worth on the trees $3500, the lemons $3000, the grapes $370, pears $30, apples $75, berries $30, walnuts $80. The total will be $7085, and all the products not counted. That surely is more than the crops of a half section in Kansas or Illinois will sell for.' Every one may not do as well, but they can approach it, and if they do, twenty acres is quite enough."
"PROFITS OF BERRY CULTURE.
"Speaking of the profits of growing strawberries in Southern California, the CovinaArgusgives some interesting facts and figures. That paper says: 'One of the growers stated to us that last year he picked and shipped from three acres the enormous amount of fourteen tons. These berries brought as high as fifteen cents and as low as four cents per pound, but netted an average of about eight cents per pound, or $2240. That would make an acre of berries produce a cash return of $746.66⅔, which, considering the shortness of the berry season, from four to five months, is a pretty good income on the money invested.'"
"PROFIT IN ALMONDS.
"M. Treat, an authority on almond culture, has contributed the following to the WoodlandMail: 'This year from 190 California paper-shell almond trees (five years old), covering two and five-sevenths acres, I gathered 3502 pounds of nuts, which sold in Chicago at twenty-two cents a pound. This is $316.82 to the acre—a little over $4 to the tree—18½ pounds to the tree. When these same trees were four years old they averaged about three pounds, and in eight years they will double what they bore at five. They will at eight years bear full 40 pounds to the tree. At twelve years they will bear fully 100 pounds to the tree without the least exertion. This is at seventy trees to the acre, and reckoning at twenty-two cents to the pound, $1540 per acre. Now these are nothing but plain, bare, raw facts.
"'Almond trees live and do well for fifty years, and in some places in Europe when fifteen years old bear from 150 to 200 pounds per tree.'"
At Saugus Junction Mr. Tolfree has established one of his famous restaurants, where I can conscientiously urge you to get out and dine. Every course is delicious.
Ventura County is partially devoted to the culture of Beans. I use a capital because Beans represent Culture, or are associated with it in one State at least, and the very meaning of the word is property, money, from the Frenchbiens—goods. I wonder how many of my Boston friends knew that! I did not until a friend showed it to me in Brewer's phrase-book, where I also learned that beans played an important part in the politics of the Greeks, being used in voting by ballot. I always had a liking for beans, but I have a profound respect for them since viewing the largest Lima Bean Ranch in the world, belonging to my friend Mr. D. W. Thompson, of Santa Barbara. There are 2500 acres of rich land, level as a house floor, bounded by a line of trees on one side and the ocean on the other; 1600 acres are planted to beans, and the profits are nearly $60,000 yearly. Thirty-six tons of beans were used this year in planting. This could not be done in the East, but beans do not need to be "poled" here, as, influenced by the dreamy atmosphere, they show no desire to climb, but just lie lazily along the ground. Still, there is a deal of work connected with the business. Dairying, building, horseshoeing, repairing of machinery, are all done on the place. "As soon as the spring rains are over, eleven gang ploughs, four ploughs to a gang, each gang drawn by six horses, plough about seven acres per day." Then the harrowing and planting in the same big way. During the entire summer these vines grow without a drop of water, freshened daily by the heavy sea fogs. Harvesting and threshing all done by machinery. The steam thresher would amaze some of our overworked, land-poor farmers. About one hundred and twenty carloads of beans are annually shipped from this ranch, reserving the tons needed for seed.
And all along the way fine ranches are seen, where beans are seen growing alone, or planted between the long even rows of fruit trees. Mr. Thompson also owns a large hog ranch. But dear me! We are now skirting the beautiful ocean curve which leads to the "Channel City"—so near the beach that the waves almost touch the rails and the dash of the surf seems under the cars. See how fine a situation! The coast line taking a sudden and most fortunate turn, the trend of mountain range and plain land is east and west, instead of north and south. Sheltered by mountains and mesas, and nestled in the green foot-hills, with the ocean breeze tempered by a chain of islands, making a serene harbor, Santa Barbara has much to make it the rival of San Diego and Pasadena. Pork and beans must now give way to legend and romance, martyred virgin, holy monks, untutored "neophytes," handsome Castilians, dashing Mexicans, energetic pioneers, the old Spanish, the imported Chinese, the eastern element now thoroughly at home, and the inevitable, ubiquitous invalid, globe-trotter, and hotel habitué—each type or stratum as distinctly marked as in a pousse café, or jelly cake. What a comparison! I ask Santa Barbara's pardon, and beg not to be struck with lightning, or destroyed by gunpowder.—"Yes, to the Arlington."
"Saints will aid if men will call,For the blue sky bends o'er all."
"Saints will aid if men will call,For the blue sky bends o'er all."
Sweet sixteen and an "awful dad." Santa Barbara and Dioscurus. Such a cruel story, and so varied in version that the student of sacred legend gets decidedly puzzled. The fair-haired daughter was advised secretly by Origen, who sent a pupil disguised as a physician to instruct her in the Christian faith. She insisted on putting three windows instead of two into the bathroom of the tower to which her father sent her, either to prevent her from marrying or to imprison her until she would wed one of the many gay young suitors. These three windows showed her belief in the Trinity, which she could not have learned from Origen, as among Christians he was regarded as heretical, and his followers were Unitarians and Universalists combined, adding the cheerful theory of the "second opportunity" and that all punishment from sin would have an end, yet clinging to the old pagan mythology and believing that sun, moon, stars, and the ocean all had souls—a "Neo-Platonist."
Refusing to recant, Barbara was arraigned and condemned to death. Her energetic paternal evidently had heard the maxim, "If you want anything done, do it yourself." His heavy blows fell soft as feathers. She seemed in sweet slumber. So he drew his sword, cut off her head, and was instantly killed by lightning from Heaven. Thus ends the history of two "Early Fathers."
But sweet St. Barbara will never be forgotten. She is the patroness of artillery soldiers, and protects from lightning and sudden death. In the many pictures where she appears she carries a feather, or the martyr's sword and palm, or a book; and the three windows are often seen. She is the only Santa who bears the cup and wafer.
The appreciative Spaniards honored her memory by bestowing her pretty name on the choicest spot of the coast, a belt of land seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, from Point Concepcion to Buena Ventura. No one can dare to doubt this tragic tale, for Barbara's head may still be seen preserved as a relic in the temple of All Saints at Rome. I do not want to be too severe in my estimate of the Roman noble, Dioscurus. An old lady who never spoke ill of any one, when called upon to say something good of the devil, said, "We might all imitate his persistence;" and this impulsive demon was certainly a creature who, if he had an unpleasant duty confronting him, attended to it himself.
The first navigator who landed on the coast of Santa Barbara, or on one of the four islands, was Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, in 1542. He is buried on San Miguel (pronouncedMagell). The Indians (and the entire Indian population at that time amounted to 22,000) were exceedingly glad to welcome the strangers, much better behaved than those found at San Diego, who stripped the clothing from those too ill to defend themselves. Perhaps a reason for this superiority may be found in the fact that these tribes were entirely naked, and had no desire for any conventional covering. They serenaded their new friends so loudly that sleep or rest was impossible, and offered their most delicious food and free use of canoes. They ate seeds, fruit, fish, locusts; hunted rabbit, hare, and deer; dried the meat of the latter on trees; placed acorns in a sieve basket, rinsed and boiled them. As every race is unhappy without an intoxicating drink and something to chew or smoke, they extracted a bitter beverage from a certain seed, and used a root in place of tobacco.
These Channel Indians let their hair grow so long that they could make braids and fasten them round the face with stone rings. The visitors spoke of the "Island of the Bearded People." They had substantial brush huts, supported by pillars bearing inscriptions supposed to allude to their religion, and they enjoyed dancing to the music of bone flutes. For gifts, they most desired red calico and chocolate.
Cabrillo's men found a primitive temple on one of the islands, and in it an unknown god or idol. One of the eight original tribes had a form of worship strongly resembling a Turkish bath. The men sat round a hot fire until drenched in perspiration; then plunged into a pool of cold water. The women were not permitted to be devout in this "cleanliness next to godliness" manner. It was a luxury and prerogative the noble braves wanted entirely for themselves. (We see something similar in our own progressive, enlightened churches, where women are expected to provide and pack clothing for missionary boxes, attend unfailingly on the stated means of grace, visit and nurse the sick and poor members, deny themselves for charity, listen reverently to stupid discourses on the unknown, delivered with profound certainty that approaches omniscience, but are not allowed to "speak out in meetin'," or to have the honor of being represented by women delegates at denominational conventions, or clubs and councils. They are to lead heavenward, but earthly pleasures and honors are strictly "reserved"! About the same, isn't it?)
When Father Junipero Sena reached Santa Barbara on his mission-starting pilgrimage, he sent for Mexican artisans, who taught his converts all the industrial arts. They were taught to support themselves, then a piece of ground was parcelled out to each, with a yoke of oxen and farming utensils. Serra formed eleven missions; ten were added later. He built the great aqueduct which is still used in Santa Barbara. All honor to his memory! "There lingers around Santa Barbara more of the aroma and romance of a bygone civilization, when the worthy Padres set an example of practical Christianity to the Indian aborigines that we would do well to emulate, than is found elsewhere in the State."
In the good old days a person could travel from San Diego to San Francisco and not expend one shilling. The Mission Fathers would furnish saddle, horse, or a comfortable bed, meals, and the Spanish host would leave in the guest-chamber a small heap of silver covered by a cloth, and the stranger, if needy, was expected to take some of it to supply his wants.
Would you like to see a specimen of the Indian dialect used by the "Bearded People"? I can count to five in the Siujtu language—or, at least, I don't care to go much further: paca, sco, masa, scu, itapaca; twenty is sco-quealisco; and to-morrow, huanahuit.
The islands are now only occupied by flocks of sheep, sheared twice a year, and paying their owners a good profit; $100,000 one year from Santa Rosa alone. The wool gets full of seed, and it is not the finest quality, but this is counterbalanced by the quantity.
Many large abalone shells are found on San Miguel. They are pried off with a crow-bar, the shells are polished for sale, made into buttons, etc., and the meat is dried and sent to China, where it is ground and made into soup. It has been used here, and pronounced by some to be equal to terrapin, and by others to closely resemble leather.
These islands are always a delight to look upon. As the state of the atmosphere varies they seem near or far away, clearly defined, or with a hazy outline. But in sunlight or shadow, mist or mirage, they are ever beautiful. Within the peaceful channel ships are safe while a wind storm rages just beyond. The government sends big war-ships here for a trial of speed. None of these islands are now desirable for residence. There is no natural supply of fresh water, and the sheep rely on the moisture left by the heavy fogs, and on a certain plant which holds water in its cup-like blossom. I hear that at Catalina the goats, deprived of their natural pabulum of hoop-skirts, tomato cans, and old shoes, feed on clover and drink the dew.
That's what this climate does for a goat. I do not dare to make many statements in regard to novelties in natural history since one poor woman poetized upon the coyote "howling" in the desert, and roused hundreds of critics to deny that coyotes ever howled. And a scientific student came to Santa Barbara not so long ago, and found on one of these islands a species of tailless fox, and hastened to communicate the interesting anomaly to the Smithsonian Institute. It seems that the otter hunters trapped these foxes for their tails, then let them go.
If it were not for these blunders I would state that roosters seem to keep awake most of the night in Southern California, and can be heard crowing at most irregular hours. Considering the risks, I refrain.
The islands were named by a pious priest, who made the map; and those we see in looking out from Santa Barbara are San Miguel, Santa Rosa, Santa Cruz, Ana, Capa. San Nicholas Island is interesting as having been the abode for sixteen years of a solitary Indian woman, a feminine Robinson Crusoe, without even a Friday, who was left by mistake when the rest of the Indians were carried away by order of the Mission Fathers. Two of the men who at last succeeded in finding her gave their testimony, which has been preserved; and one of them, Charlie Brown, is still alive, and likes to tell the strange story. It seems she had run back to get her child, and the ship went off without her. Nidever tells his story in this way:
"We scattered off two or three hundred yards apart. She had a little house made of brush and had a fire; she was sitting by the fire with a little knife; she was working with it. She had a bone; all came up and looked at her; she had a heap of roots—that is what she lived on—and had little sacks to carry them in. As soon as we sat down she put a lump of them to roast on the fire. Finally we got ready to go, and we made signs for her to come with us. She understood the signs for her to come with us; she picked up her things to take them on board."
She had a dress made of duck skins, sewed together with the sinews of a seal, with needles made of bone—an eye drilled through. This dress the priests sent to Rome.
The demijohn in which she carried water was made out of rushes and stopped with asphaltum. She was making one of these water bottles. She heated small round stones in the fire and put them in the asphaltum, and then lined the bottle, making it tight. She had no matches, of course, nor even a tinder-box, but started fire by rubbing two sticks together.
She said her child was eaten up by wolves. None of the Indians understood her dialect; finally one woman was found who could talk to her a little, who had been raised on the same island. The woman was found in 1853. She seemed happy and contented, and would go round to different houses and dance the Indian dances. She was a great curiosity; twenty or thirty would go along with her. Many who were sailing by would stop just to see her.
The other hunters had noticed small human tracks, but never could see any one. At last several men were scattered all over the island, and Charlie Brown was the first to discover her. He thought at first it was only a black crow sitting on a whalebone. I give his version, as his language is far more picturesque and vivid than my paraphrase would be. He says:
"She had built a brush fence about two feet high to break the wind. The sun was coming in her face. She was skinning a seal. The dog when he noticed me he began to growl. I thought if she should run. I stepped right round her, and she bowed as if she knew me before, and when the Indians came up they all kneeled down, and when she saw there was some of her color, she held out some of her food and offered all some.
"I took her by the shoulder, and I said, 'Varmoose,' and she understood at once. I took everything she had, and she took a big seal head in basket. We all had something to carry. Then she had a little brand of fire, and she took that away and wobbled along with a strange kind of a step like until we came to a watering-place about fifty feet down the bank, and they all went down there and she went too, and she sat down there and we watched to see what she would do, and she washed herself over; her hair was all rotting away, a kind of bleached by the sun, and we got to the vessel and she kneeled down, and we had a stove right on deck and she crawled to the stove and we gave her a piece of biscuit and she ate like a good fellow. It came on to blow; old man Nidever had some bed-ticking. I made her a dress, and gave her a man's shirt. She was tickled to death. If I was where she was she would hold up her dress and point that I made it."
He was asked how she happened to be left, repeated Nidever's story, and added: "She found they were all gone, and commenced to hollo. No answer, and hunted round and saw the tracks and found they went to lower part of the island. When she got there found the vessel going away, and she called, 'Mancyavina,' but it never came. She put her head on the ground and laid on the ground and cried, and they never came.
"The priest here had all the Indians in Santa Barbara and Santa Inez to see if they understood her. They could understand some words, but not all. She got baptized, and they made her a Christian and everything. A steamer came up from below; the captain offered to take her up and show her, but old man Nidever would not agree. She died; they gave her green corn and melons, and they were too much for her. She made knives of bone and wood, and had pointed nails for catching fish. She had ropes nicely twisted with sinews, twisted as true as any rope-maker could make, and had bottles made of grass, and dishes of wood with handles; she put the feathers next her skin to keep warm."
I will only add that wild dogs were numerous, and she tamed them for friends. The priests called her Juana Maria, and I think the name of the island should be changed in her honor. I doubt if Santa Barbara herself could have done as well under similar circumstances.
"Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,Limes and citrons and apricots,And wines that are known to Eastern princes."
"Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,Limes and citrons and apricots,And wines that are known to Eastern princes."
In walking through the streets of Santa Barbara you may still see the various types, but not so clearly defined as of old. Holy Fathers still intone the service within the massive mission walls; they still cultivate the large garden, from which woman is sedulously excluded. But the faces are German and Irish. At a street corner two men are talking earnestly, and as you pass you get a glance from Mexican eyes, dark and soft, but the hair shows Indian blood. A real old Mexican vaquero rides by in the genuine outfit, well worn and showing long use; next a carriage full of fashionable visitors; then a queerer combination than the Anglomaniac with his trousers legs turned up if the cable reports a rainy day in London. This is the American vaquero—usually a short, fat man with dumpy legs, who dons a flapping sombrero, buys a new Mexican saddle, wooden stirrups, and leather riata, sometimes adding a coil of rope at left side, wears the botas with a corduroy suit at dinner at hotel, and doesn't know at all how comical an appearance he presents. The very next to pass is one of the pioneers, who, although worth a million or more, puts on no style, and surveys the mongrel in front with a twinkle in his eye. Every one should own a horse or pony or burro here, for the various drives are the greatest charm of the place. Through all Southern California the happy children ride to school, where the steeds, fastened to fence in front of building, wait patiently in line, like Mary's lamb. But in Santa Barbara you see mere tots on horseback, who look as if it were no new accomplishment. I believe the mothers put them on gentle ponies to be cared for, or safe, as mothers in general use the cradle or high-chair. One of the old Mexican residents of Santa Barbara, when over eighty years of age, had the misfortune to break his leg. He lay in bed uneasily until a surgeon could be summoned and the fractured bones set and duly encased in plaster. He then insisted on being carried out and placed upon his favorite horse, where he sat during each day with patient serenity until the damage was repaired by nature.
The drives are all delightful. You cannot make a mistake; there are twenty-eight drives distinct and beautiful. Those best known are, to the Mission Cañon, to the Lighthouse, to Montecito and Carpenteria, Cooper's Ranch, through the far-famed Ojai Valley, and the stage or coaching trip to San Luis Obispo, not forgetting La Vina Grande (the big grapevine), the trunk eighteen inches in diameter, foliage covering 10,000 square feet, producing in one year 12,000 pounds of grapes; and the Cathedral Oaks. I jotted down a few facts at the Lighthousea laJingle inPickwick Papers: gleaming white tower, black lantern, rising from neat white cottage, green window-shutters, light 180 feet above sea-level, fine view from balcony, fields of young barley down to water's edge, bluest blue in sea and sky, the lamp holds only one quart of oil, reflectors do big business, considering, throwing the light 417 miles.
The keeper, a woman, has been there over thirty years, never goes away for a single night, trim, quaint, and decided, doesn't want to be written up, will oblige her, don't believe a woman ever did so much good with a quart of kerosene daily before. Been a widow a long time, heard of one woman, wife of lighthouse-keeper, he died, she too stout to be gotten out of the one room, next incumbent married her.
Montecito, as Roe described it, is a village of charming gardens and green lawns, with a softer climate even than Santa Barbara—a most desirable situation for an elegant country retreat. I had the privilege of visiting the home of Mr. W. P. Gould, a former resident of Boston, who has one of the most perfect places I have ever seen. He has been experimenting this year with olive oil in one room of his large house for curing lemons, and has perfected a machine which expresses the "virgin oil" without cracking a single pit or stone. This is a great improvement, as one crushed stone will give an acrid taste to a quart of oil. There is a fashion in fruits as much as in bonnets or sleeves. Olive culture is just now the fad. Pears, prunes, almonds, walnuts, have each had their day, or their special boom. Pomona is headquarters for the olive industry. Nursery men there sold over 500,000 trees last year. The tree does not require the richest soil. Hon. Elwood Cooper's olive oil is justly famous, but the machinery designed by Mr. Gould makes a much purer oil, pronounced by connoisseurs to be the finest in the world. The olives are sun-dried; the ponderous rollers and keen knives of the masher mash the fruit, and every after-process is the perfection of cleanliness and skill. There is a nutty sweetness about this oil, and a clear amber color, which makes it most desirable for the fastidious invalid.
This new process has been purchased by a company who are going to try to give the country what it has never known before—pure olive oil, free from a bit of the stone. No pure oil is brought to our country. The public think the price too high; they prefer to buy cotton-seed oil at thirty-five cents a gallon, and this is adulterated with peanuts, sunflowers, and so on. This will do for the masses, but the best is none too good if it can be found.
Few appreciate the medicinal value of olive oil. Nations making use regularly of this and the fruit are freed from dyspepsia. A free use in the United States would round out Brother Jonathan's angular spareness of form, and make him less nervous and less like the typical Yankee of whom the witty Grace Greenwood said: "He looks as if the Lord had made him and then pinched him." One does not see the orange groves here, but the lemon trees and walnuts and olives are an agreeable change—just for a change.
"Who ever thinks of connecting such a commonplace article of diet as the lemon with the romantic history of ill-fated Anne Boleyn? Yet, indirectly, she was the cause of its first introduction into England, and so into popular notice. Henry VIII., who, if he rid himself of his wives like a brute, certainly won them like a prince, gave such splendid feasts and pageants in honor of the coronation of Anne and of their previous nuptials as had seldom been accorded to queens of the royal blood. These kingly entertainments were in turn followed by the great civic feast of London, for which the whole world was searched for delicacies to add to the splendor. At one such banquet, graced by the presence of the royal pair, a lemon was introduced as an elegant novelty. To an epicure such as Henry, the acquisition of a castle in France would have proved less acceptable, and such was the importance attached to the discovery—so says an old biographer—that a special record was made of the fact that the cost of this precious lemon was six silver pennies."
We hear nothing of irrigation, but almost everything will thrive without it. The soil grows well all varieties of fruits found in the Eastern and New England States, besides all the semi-tropical fruits, as guavas, loquats, persimmons, dates, etc. As the Rev. Mr. Jackson says: "Could it be shown that the primitive Eden bore as many fruits pleasant to the taste, it would add a new pang to the thought of original sin."
The number of native trees seems small, but trees have been naturalized here from every part of the world. The pepper tree is from Peru, also the quinine tree: from Chili, the monkey tree and the Norfolk Island pine.
Mr. Cooper imported the eucalyptus from Australia. It grows rapidly, and is planted for windbreaks. It is used for firewood, and when cut down nearly to the ground will start up with the same old courage and ambition. Its roots are so eager for water that they make long detours, sometimes even climbing up and down a stone wall, if it is in their route, or into a well. From the same country comes the acacia, the rubber tree, and a large number of shrubs. New Zealand contributes her share, and to China and Japan they are indebted for the camphor tree, the gingko, the loquat, and the chestnuts. To South Africa they are indebted for the silver tree, and from the northern part of that country the date-palm and the tamarind.
One sees side by side here, and in Pasadena, trees from almost opposite climes: the New England elm and a cork tree, a cedar of Lebanon and a maple or an English oak. Then the glorious palm—twenty-two varieties in Montecito Valley alone.
Sydney Smith said of the fertility of Australia, "Tickle her with a hoe and she laughs with a harvest." But in California even the hoe is not needed, for "volunteer crops" come up all by themselves, and look better than ours so carefully cultivated. They say that if a Chinaman eats a watermelon under a tree the result is a fine crop of melons next year. And I read of a volunteer tomato plant ploughed down twice that measured twelve feet square, and bore thousands of small red tomatoes.
Alfalfa is an ever-growing crop—can be garnered five times each year.
And as for flowers, I really cannot attempt to enumerate or describe in detail. There are hundreds of varieties of roses. They were found growing wild by myriads, and have been most carefully cultivated and improved. One rose tree in the grounds of the Arlington Hotel has spread over sixty feet of the veranda, and three lady guests have climbed into its branches at once. As one man said: "The roses here would climb to the moon if a trellis could be provided."
A friend sent me twenty-five large bunches of the choicest roses from her garden one morning in April, each bunch a different variety. Their roses are shipped in large quantities to San Francisco, and Chicago has her churches decorated at Easter from the rose gardens of Santa Barbara.
Honey naturally is thought of. Apiculture here is a great business. The bee has to be busy all day long and all through the year—no rest. One ingenious fellow proposed crossing the working bee with the firefly, so it could work all night long by its own lantern. But this is better. I hear wondrous stories of bees getting into cracks of church towers or upper stories, and bulging out the buildings with their accumulated stores—positively cartloads of sweetness. Think of honey made from orange flowers selling at five cents a pound!
A clergyman writing of Santa Barbara County says that twenty-five years ago all their vegetables were imported. Now beans yield a ton to the acre, potatoes two hundred and fifty bushels per acre, and he has seen potatoes that weighed six, seven, and eight and a half pounds—as much as an ordinary baby; beets, seventy-five tons to the acre; carrots, thirty. Mr. Webster once declared in Congress that this State could never raise a bushel of grain. Corn yields fifty bushels to the acre; barley, sixty; wheat, thirty. Others give much higher records: corn, one hundred and thirty bushels; barley, eighty; potatoes, four hundred; forty tons of squashes, four tons of hay, sixty tons of beets.
I have spoken of stock-raising. Dairying is a profitable industry. Poultry farming a little uncertain. If interested in mining there is much to explore. Just in this county are found gold, silver, copper, asphaltum, bituminous rock, gypsum, quicksilver, natural gas, and petroleum.
And what sort of a climate does one find? Santa Barbara is an all-year-round resort. It has all that one could ask.