Read Ebook: Across the Continent by the Lincoln Highway by Gladding Effie Price

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But we drive on through the valley over a slight pass and come to an adobe ranch house on the left, sitting modestly back on a slight knoll against a background of bare hills. At the ranch gate is a sign to the effect that this is Aloha Ranch Inn, and that meals can be had at all hours. It is the word Aloha that catches us. Surely someone must live here who knows the lovely Hawaiian Islands with their curving cocoanut palms, and their emerald shores. So we turn into the drive and find a kindly farmer, master of his six hundred acres in this lone valley, who with his wife gives us warm welcome. He does indeed know Hawaii, having lived and worked on the famous Ewa sugar plantation for nearly twenty years. We have a homely but appetizing supper, and a dreamless night's sleep in one of the farmhouse bedrooms. The next morning is gloriously beautiful, and we drive on our way. In order to avoid fording the Salinas river, which is very high, we make our journey by way of Indian Valley, through hilly, rather lonely country. All along the river there are signs of the devastation made by the unusual spring rains. The river banks are gouged out and the railroad bridges are down, the rails being twisted into fantastic shapes. In passing San Miguel we stop to see the Mission, which is in a fair state of repair and in constant use. One of the beautiful toned old bells of the Mission is hung in a framework outside the church, where the visitor may sound it. The new bell is unfortunately suspended from the top of an immense iron, derrick-like structure which stands outside the church, and is unsightly. The interior of the church is very fine. It is a lofty structure, fifty feet high and one hundred and fifty feet long, its walls covered with frescoes in rich blues and reds, the work of the Indians. There are niches for holy water in the thick old walls and a large niche which was used for the confessional. Above the altar is painted the "All-Seeing Eye." The heavy rafters of the roof extend through the walls and long wooden pins are fitted through the ends to bind the walls together. Not a nail was used in the entire structure.

We take luncheon at Paso Robles , famed for its healing waters. The hotel is pleasant and the new bath house with its handsome marble and tiling is very fine. Many sojourn here for the medicinal uses of the waters. Between Paso Robles and San Luis Obispo we come through a stretch of very beautiful country, part open forest land, part richly pastoral, the property of the Atascadero Company. The Atascadero settlement is one of those Utopian plans for happiness and prosperity which bids fair to be realized. The climate is almost ideal, the scenery is charming, the country is richly fertile. They tell us that people are pouring in from the East and that the colony is growing constantly. At the north end of the Atascadero territory we pass a handsome sign swinging over the road, which reads: "Atascadero Colony. North End. Ten Miles Long and Seven Miles wide. Welcome." As we approach the south end of the ten mile stretch we come upon another sign whose legend is: "Come again." Turning back as we pass under the sign we see that its reverse legend is the same as that of the north end sign, save that it is for the south end. So whoever passes along the main road through Atascadero property is bound to have the uplifting welcome and to receive, as he passes on, the kindly farewell. We congratulate the Atascadero colonists on the lovely rolling country in whose midst they are to dwell and on the magnificent live oaks that dot their park-like fields. San Luis Obispo is quite a large town, but the Mission of San Luis Obispo has been spoiled by being incorporated into the new church and school plant. One catches only a glimpse of broken cloisters within the school enclosure. I stepped into the church as we drove by in the late afternoon, and saw the children coming in for prayer and for confession. Little stubby-toed boys tip-toed in, kneeling awkwardly but reverently, and crossing themselves with holy water; while from the confessional came the low murmur of some urchin making his confession.

Not long after leaving San Luis Obispo, near Nipomo-by-the-Sea, I had the misfortune to lose my leather letter case. We were horror struck when we found it gone and turned about just before reaching Santa Maria to retrace our steps across the long bridge and then across a wide stretch of dry, sandy river bed. The ravages of the floods had torn a much wider path for the river than it now used, so that for nearly a mile we drove over sandy river bottom, the river being a shrunken stream. To our great joy we met another motor car, and found that the three gentlemen in it had picked up my bag and were bringing it along to Santa Maria in the hope of finding the owner. What had promised to be a long and tiring search, involving the questioning of every passer-by and inquiry at every wayside house for miles, turned out to be only a short drive. We turned toward Santa Maria and went on our way rejoicing.

Santa Maria is a large, prosperous, attractive town. On toward Los Olivos the country is like some parts of New England, attractive but lonely. We are glad to reach in the twilight the hospitable lights of Mattei's Tavern at Los Olivos. Mr. Mattei is Swiss by birth, but has spent many years in California. He has a ranch whose acres supply his unusually good table with vegetables, poultry, and flowers. His house is kept with the neatness and comfort of an excellent Swiss inn, and is a delightful place for a sojourn. We are sorry to come away on the morning of the first of May. We pass dozens of wagons and buggies, the people all in holiday attire, coming into town for the May-day celebrations. Los Olivos was once an olive growing valley, but grain growing has been found more profitable. We wish to see the Santa Ynez mission and therefore take the route to the right, avoiding the road to Santa Barbara by way of Santa Ynez and the San Marcos Pass. The Santa Ynez Mission has a situation of unusual beauty. It stands on a tableland with a circle of mountains behind it, and at its left a low green valley stretching away into the distance. A Danish settlement of neat new houses of modern type faces the old Mission. The church has been restored, and ten years of loving care have been bestowed upon it by the present priest and his niece. The choice old vestments have been mended with extreme care. The ladies of the Spanish Court are said to have furnished the rich brocades for these vestments, which were sent on from Spain and made up at the Mission. It is an ancient custom for the Indians to wash the handwoven linen vestments, a custom they still observe. The walls of Santa Ynez are about seven feet thick, and the Mission was some thirteen years in building. Roses climb over the cloisters, and the whole Mission is very attractive.

From the Mission we drive over the Gaviota Pass, the mountain road being rough, narrow, and very picturesque. Fine old live oaks and white oaks grow on the rough hillsides. As one approaches the little seaside station of Gaviota the rocks are very grand. Suddenly we come upon the sea, and the blue waters that are part of the charm of Santa Barbara stretch before us. The scenery from Gaviota to Santa Barbara is one of the finest stretches along the entire coast. Three misty islands are to be seen off the coast, set in an azure sea. They belong to the Santa Barbara group; Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, and San Miguel. As one approaches Santa Barbara one sees farmhouses in the midst of lovely farming country on points jutting into the sea and commanding exquisite views of the water. The last ten miles before reaching Santa Barbara we drive through an unbroken stretch of English walnut orchards, the trees carefully pruned and in admirable condition. We have come through the rolling pastures and grain fields of Sonoma Valley, through the fruit orchards of Napa Valley and Santa Clara Valley, through the unbroken grain fields of Salinas Valley and Lockwood's Valley, and through the diversified cultivation of the valley around Los Olivos; and now we are driving into famous Santa Barbara through ten miles of walnut groves, garden-like in their cultivation.

Four miles south of Santa Barbara are Montecito Valley and the delightful Miramar Hotel on the sea. A very pleasant suburban colony is grouped around the hotel. The hotel itself has within its grounds its own rose-embowered cottages. One may live in a bungalow and have one's own fireside, one's own sitting room and bed chamber, one's own rose-covered porch, one's own home life, and go into the hotel only for meals and for sociability's sake. It is an ideal winter life for those who wish all the orderly, luxurious comfort of a well managed inn, together with the privacy of home life in a rose cottage. We drove through lovely little Montecito Valley, catching glimpses of fine houses rising against a picturesque mountain background, some in the Mission style of architecture, some in Italian and some in Spanish style. The lawns of one estate were surrounded by long hedges of pink roses. We turned south through Toro Valley where I recall a most beautiful hillside olive orchard, the trees being planted on the slope sheltered from the sea and facing the mountains. They were as beautiful in their fresh grey-greenness as any olive orchard that we saw in all California. Leaving Miramar we drove on along the coast to Ventura, the road running by the sea and in some places on long platforms built out over the water. At Ventura we turned west and came to Nordhoff, the bridge being down on the Casitas Pass. We had a somewhat lonely evening drive through a green fruited valley from Ventura to Nordhoff, and reached our hostel, the Pierpont Cottages, a few miles from Nordhoff, late in the evening. We were more than ready for supper and for rest in a lovely private cottage, through whose open casement long sprays of pink roses climbed in. The morning revealed to us the rare beauties of the secluded Ojai Valley, in whose foothills stand the Pierpont Inn and cottages, 1000 feet above sea level.

It would be hard to exaggerate the charm and beauty of the Ojai Valley for those who like its type of scenery. A magnificent wall of stone mountain, whose colors run into greys, pinks, lavenders, and yellows, forms the eastern boundary of the valley. On its level floor are luxuriant orchards. Here in warm protection grow the fig, the olive, the orange, and the lemon. The beautiful Matilija poppies grow in great luxuriance here, their tall grey-green stalks and white crape petals with golden hearts being very effective. I had seen the Matilija poppies for the first time growing in the gardens of Santa Barbara. I now saw them growing wild on the slopes of the Ojai Valley foothills. Above the Pierpont Cottages are the buildings of a famous boys' school high in the foothills. For those who love warmth and glowing color, long tramps and long horseback rides into the mountain defiles above the valley, the Ojai is an ideal place to spend a charm?d winter. We came away in the morning light, driving across the valley to the main road and ascending a steep hill to the Upper Ojai road. A glorious view of the whole valley unrolled before us, level as a floor, with its rich masses of fig trees and its shining orange and lemon trees, their green broken here and there by trim houses. Higher up were the cottages of the Pierpont Inn, and higher still the big building of the school, all over-topped by the great masses of the mountains behind. I felt that I should like to build a bungalow on the spot and live and die there.

We come on by a very rough, narrow, bumpy, and precipitous mountain road, past the summer cottages of Sulphur Springs into the Santa Paula Valley. We pass people planting young orchards of lemons and oranges, and we come through defiles, the bare, rugged hills rising above us on both sides. Sometimes these hills are clay-colored. Sometimes they are painted a delicate lavender by whole hillsides of blooming sage; sometimes sage not yet in bloom covers the hills with a delicate grey-green mantle. Other hillsides are a bright yellow from a yellow, string-like plant that nets itself in great masses over the entire slope. On the whole the country until we reach Santa Paula is rather bare. At Santa Paula there is a very pleasant inn. It was at Santa Paula that I saw a schoolhouse enclosure surrounded by a hedge-like row of trees, every tree a blooming mass of glorious yellow.

At Sespe we passed a very prosperous lemon and orange orchard of immense size where they were planting fresh orchards of slender young trees. Before we reached Saugus we had to ford the Santa Clara River, the bridge being down. We stuck in the soft sand in mid-river and T. was obliged to wade through the shallow water to the shore behind us, which happened to be nearest, to go in search of a countryman and horses. In the meantime I took off my boots and stockings and waded across to the far side of the stream. There I was just lacing my boots when a young gentleman appeared driving a small car. He debated as to the risk of driving across stream, but decided to try it. Driving slowly he succeeded in getting through and turned to wave his hat in triumph. I waved back and he pushed on his way. Soon T. appeared with a countryman driving two stout horses. They quickly pulled the car across and their master received a dollar for his services.

After an indifferent lunch at the Saugus railway station we went on over the fine Newhall grade, through Fernando and the great San Fernando Valley, through the brand new town of Van Nuys, and the settlement of Lankershim and the handsome suburb of Hollywood into Los Angeles. The San Fernando Valley, a wide plain with mountains in the far distance, has been turned by the magic of water from a vast, scrubby desert into a fruitful region, rapidly becoming populous. The San Fernando Mission Company has placed in front of the old San Fernando Mission on the broad highway which now runs past the Mission a charming flower garden. The bright flowers blaze out in the afternoon sun against a background of fragments of grey adobe wall. The Mission itself has but little to show. A caretaker lives in the fragment of the old monastery and shows one through the few deserted and dingy rooms. The finest thing in San Fernando Valley is the new boulevard which sweeps through the valley to Los Angeles and is known as the 0,000 boulevard. It is largely due to the generalship of Mr. Whitely, who is a Napoleon of real estate. Through the middle of the boulevard runs the electric car line. On each side of the car line is a border of rose bushes of different varieties. Outside of this border are two fine roads, one on either side; and again outside of these roads is a wonderful border planted in the following order: first, a line of rose bushes, and second, a line of Indian deodars, first cousins to the Lebanon cedars, these deodars alternating in their planting with a flowering shrub; third, comes a line of Austrian and other varieties of pines; fourth, is planted a row of palm trees. At present this planting is in its early stages, but when roses, shrubs, and evergreens are larger, as they will soon be under the bright California sun, the effect will be very rich and beautiful. Van Nuys has a fine new schoolhouse, and shining new dwellings of white glazed brick, built in the Italian and the Spanish style.

California specializes in schoolhouses and street lamps. In the newest and in some instances in the most isolated settlements, you will find beautiful schoolhouses, an earnest of the children and the education that are to be; and all over California in country villages one finds the main streets lined with ornate lamp standards surmounted by handsome globes. They give an air even to sordid little streets lined by saloons, country groceries, and dry-goods emporiums.

California is not afraid to spend money for education. Her school buildings, many of them in the Mission style, would make Eastern towns of the same size gasp with amazement.

Hollywood with its lovely villas is a popular and beautiful suburb of Los Angeles, and seems almost like a second Los Angeles save that it is among the hills instead of on the plain.

Los Angeles is unique. Where will you find another city like it, so open, so bright, with such handsome apartment houses, designed for light housekeeping, such multitudes of cafeterias? Where will you find such a green square of civic center with people sitting quietly about, enjoying the sunshine, the splashing of the fountain, the tameness of the starlings? These are the happy, not the unhappy, unemployed. They have come from far and near to live simply in light housekeeping apartments, to bask in the sunshine, many of them to enjoy a sunny old age on a modest but comfortable income. The last census, they tell us, shows that 80 per cent of the Los Angeles people are from the State of Iowa. But from all the Middle West they have fled from the cold winters to the warmth of this big city which really seems to be not a city at all, but an immense collection of open parks, bright houses, and handsome streets. Thousands of people are pouring into Los Angeles every year. Great fields around the city have been included within the city limits, fine streets with ornate lamps and copings have been cut through them, handsome stucco and shingle villas have been erected. These are homes of well-to-do people who mean to spend at least part of each year, if not the rest of their lives, in Los Angeles. It is all a puzzle, this phenomenal growth of the city. It is not wholly due to business, for the most prosperous business man in Los Angeles is probably the real estate dealer, who has plotted the fields, added new streets, and sold at ever-increasing prices the villa and home sites. The merchant and the provision dealer do well, but after all, their territory is the city itself. There is no great hinterland with which to deal. It is not due to manufacturing interests, for as yet these have been but little developed. It must be, as a lady said to me, "the sale of the climate," an unfailing stock of sunshine that has made Los Angeles the happy, growing, extremely prosperous city that it is.

One may choose from many hotels one's hostel, or one may live in a beautiful apartment, cook one's own breakfast of bacon and eggs, and sally forth to any one of a dozen cafeterias for luncheon and dinner. We found the Hotel Leighton on West Lake Park eminently satisfactory; a spacious, quiet, well managed establishment with the spaces of the park before it and the cars within three minutes' walk.

From Los Angeles we drove through the San Gabriel Valley, dominated by snow covered Mount San Antonio, to Long Beach. The valley is a panorama of new suburban towns, market gardens, and walnut groves. Long Beach is a mixture of Coney Island, Atlantic City, and a solid, substantial inland town. Its public buildings are very fine, its churches being particularly handsome. Its big Hotel Virginia reminds one of the handsome hotels along the boardwalk at Atlantic City, and its long arcade of amusement halls, cheap jewelry shops, and other booths for seaside trinkets is like Coney Island. This stretch of amusement halls and shops lies along the seashore at a lower level than the city proper, and does not impart its character to the rest of the town. It was at Long Beach that I first heard a night-singing bird, somewhat like the nightingale. The little creature sang gaily all night long in the park opposite our hotel. Long Beach and San Pedro are both sailing points for Santa Catalina Island, twenty-five miles away, whose purple-grey heights can be dimly seen across the water. The trip to Catalina is in rather small boats, and is likely to be somewhat trying; but the trials of the two or three hours of voyage are amply awarded by the Island itself.

Santa Catalina has a curving, sickle-shaped harbor around which cluster the hotels and boarding houses which make the home of the summer guests. This little white village against a background of hilly country, taking on lovely lavender and grey tints at sunset, is not unlike some of the towns on the picturesque coast of Cornwall. Santa Catalina is a paradise for deep-sea fishermen, a lotus eaters' island where one may walk over the hills into the quiet interior or take a boat and dream along the rocks, gazing down for hours at the beauties of the gardens of the sea. I would advise all tourists to take time to visit these swaying groves of kelp and other sea plants in a row boat. One sees them in this way far more intimately and satisfactorily than by a more hurried inspection. In the late afternoon everyone at Catalina gathers at the pier to see the fishermen come in with their spoils. Boat after boat is seen approaching. They round the pier and the big fish are lifted up for all to admire. Then come the weighing and the cleaning of the fish. The seagulls hover near, ready for their share of the spoils, as the entrails of the fish are thrown into the sea. A tame seal swims around from his home on the rocks several miles away in order to have his portion of the feast. At the time of our visit he was in a fit of sulks, as a fisherman had struck him on the head with an oar because he had tried to clamber into a boat in his zeal for his supper. A unique experience at Catalina is an evening ride in a swift motor boat equipped with a powerful searchlight. Faster and faster goes the boat in the darkness, the searchlight swinging from side to side over the wide waters. The flying fish, startled by the sweep of the light upon the water, leap wildly into the air. The air is full of them, and of the sound of their rushing wings. Plump! Here comes one into the boat! and here's another, and another! We shield our faces with our hands, shouting with laughter as the fish fall with a thump into the boat, sometimes on the laps of the passengers. More than one passenger has been struck by a flying fish, and our landlady tells us of a tourist who went out for an evening ride in the motor boat to return with a black eye from the blow of a frightened flying fish. Flying fish is delicious eating, and our catch is divided up among the passengers. We were attracted to this excursion when we first landed at Catalina by a startling advertisement describing the experience as "Thousands of flying fish tangoing through the air."

Catalina Island is a quiet spot, outside its little rim of houses along its curving harbor. The pedestrian may go inland for a number of miles, taking his luncheon with him, and have only the hills and the birds for his company. We had such a walk, and saw a hawk alight and settle himself calmly upon a fencepost, holding in his talons a newly captured snake. The creature was still alive, its body ringed in a rigid hoop in its effort to escape. But the cruel claws held it fast, and its captor was preparing to finish it with his sharp beak. We were told that the dust from Santa Ana Valley, twenty-five miles away, could be seen approaching in a grey cloud across the water on windy days from shoreward. Our landlady deplored such days, when her immaculate house was covered with the dust of the distant mainland. Santa Catalina, a grey green agate in the sunlight, a purple amethyst at twilight, ringed by lovely seas, is well worth a visit.

Returning to Long Beach, we drove on toward San Diego, through the Santa Ana Valley to San Juan Capistrano. As we came through the great valley in which lie Santa Ana, Fullerton, and Anaheim, we passed fruitful groves of lemons and vast fields of beets. We observed an odd optical illusion as we came near Tustin. All the fields before us seemed to be covered with water, and we at first thought that the irrigating streams had been turned on and were flowing through them. But as we reached the fields we found them perfectly dry. Field after field stretched before us apparently swimming in water, and field after field as we came near we found dry and brown under the sun. This occurred more than once in southern California as we were driving along in the sunlight.

At San Juan Capistrano we stopped to see one of the most beautiful Missions in all California. The cloisters of San Juan, the ruins of the very fine old church, the bells in their places above the walls, all are extremely picturesque and beautiful. At San Juan with its quaint little street we found two hotels, both of which had attractions. The Mission Hotel offered us Spanish cooking, attractive to one fond of red pepper and high seasoning. Las Rosas looked like a pleasant country home turned by some enterprising woman into an inn. We chose Las Rosas and had an excellent home dinner there. From San Juan Capistrano we drove on south to Delmar, where we spent the night at the Stratford Inn. This hotel, which sits flower-encircled on its sandy hillside overlooking the blue seas, has every modern appointment and luxury. The settlement does not yet seem to have attracted a large cottage population, but there are some homes of very charming architecture and with beautiful gardens. We walked up the picturesque hills back of the hotel, and came at their summit to the precipitous edge of a great bowl from which we looked down upon a green valley stretching away many miles in extent.

From Delmar the next morning we again drove south with the sea on our right and the hills on our left. The road winds over very hilly country through a growth of rare pines known as the Torrey pines, found only here. From the heights of these hills one sees at a distance a point of land stretching into the sea, with a little town shining on its slopes like a jewel in the sun. It looks, as one approaches it from the north, like a Riviera town. This is the enchanted spot on the southern coast known as La Jolla , a little town frequented by people who love the Spanish warmth of the Southern sun and the blue of the Southern sea. Here is a beautiful Episcopal school for girls, its stucco buildings planned in Spanish fashion. Here is a charming little church of the same architecture. Here, perched on the rocks, looking out to sea along the coast fringe of the town, are flat-roofed stucco houses with a matchless view of the water. Farther back on the hills overlooking the town, are lovely winter homes, also built in the architecture of Southern countries. La Jolla is one of the loveliest spots on the whole Pacific Coast. Its rocks, its caves, its Southern sea, its sunshine, all combine to make it a delightful place in which to spend a winter.

La Jolla is only fourteen miles from San Diego, and it was an easy drive from there into the bright, clean, shining city of the South. San Diego is at present in a state of transition, the transition from a little city to a big city. She has a matchless harbor, plenty of room in which to grow, and what is becoming a rich surrounding country. She has a perfect situation, with the harbor before her and the hills rising behind her. When the rails connect her with the "back country" she will undoubtedly become a powerful city.

What could be more beautiful than the drive from San Diego out along the point which curves like a great claw into the sea and is known as Point Loma? The road first sweeps along close to the water, passing rows of pretty suburban homes. Then it rises, swings up over the hills on to the high ridge of Point Loma proper, the open sea to the right, the harbor to the left, passing the beautifully kept grounds of the fine property belonging to the School of Theosophy. Beyond, the road still climbs until it comes to the end of the Point, on which stands a little old Spanish lighthouse, now abandoned. High above the sea one looks off to the far away islands. Turning about, one sees the city, white in the sun, the mountains rising in the distance behind it. Running out from the city is a long, narrow strip of land which widens into Coronado Beach, with the red roofs of the hotel and the green stretches of the beautiful little town of Coronado. Just below is the blue water of the great harbor. It is a grand view, and ranks in my opinion with the noble views of Sydney Harbor in Australia and of Auckland harbor in New Zealand.

San Diego, like her sister cities of Los Angeles and San Francisco, is a town frequented by tourists. Many are the hotels and apartment houses, devoted to winter sojourns and light housekeeping, offset by excellent cafeterias. There are plenty of excursions from San Diego, a short one being to the Spanish house in the village of old San Diego, known as the home of Ramona. The old house with its walled garden and its wide porches has been put in order and is now used as a depot for curios and Indian goods. Another delightful trip, somewhat longer, is to Grossmont. Grossmont is, in spite of its name, a little mountain, some fifteen miles back of San Diego. It is an irregular heap of rocks, rising from rather barren surrounding country. Mr. Fletcher of San Diego first saw the possibilities of Grossmont and marked out the road which now runs around the mountain to its summit. Here are the modest houses of an artist and literary colony, among them the cottage of Madame Schumann-Heinck. From the porches of these cottages, perched high upon the bare rocks, one looks down upon the exquisite little El Cajon Valley, where grow lemons, oranges, and other fruits in beautiful green luxuriance. El Cajon could once have been bought for a song, but now its fertile acres, under the spell of irrigation, are worth many thousands.

Beyond El Cajon rise the superb mountains of the South in all their rocky grandeur. They take on most wonderful colors; warm clay yellows, rich browns, lavenders, tints of ashes of rose. They are constantly changing as the day advances, and are a world of color. No wonder that singers, poets, and artists love to look upon the glowing greens below and the glowing lavenders afar. The view from Grossmont is extremely poetic and beautiful.

We should have considered our visit to California very incomplete without having seen San Diego, its Southern seas and its fascinating "back country." It is wholly different from Los Angeles, and the charm of the South is over it all. Were I a young business man, seeking to cast in my lot with a growing California city, I should cast it in San Diego.

From San Diego we proceeded through El Cajon Valley to the little town of Julian, nearly 4000 feet high. That was a memorable ride, taking us through green valleys and then up, up through broken hill country and past heavy oak and pine forests and rich mountain pastures. In going over Mussey's Grade I saw, for the first time, growing on the rocky hillsides groups of tall yuccas. I could not be content until I had climbed out of the motor and cut one of the towering stalks, springing from a mass of thick, sword-shaped leaves. Its white scented bells covered the stalk from top to bottom. It was a tree of creamy bloom and perfume. I laid it on top of our luggage, enjoying its perfume from time to time; but the beautiful bells began to droop, and by the time the day's long journey was over the flowers had withered. Afterward, I saw many of these yuccas growing in lonely, rocky places, blooming luxuriantly. They were like tall white candelabra.

On our way to Julian, a few miles from the little town, by mistake we turned left instead of right, and had a long wandering through a great mountain country. The roads were narrow, twilight was coming on, and we found ourselves in a seemingly endless forest. Sometimes from high points we had wonderful sunset glimpses of distant mountains looming above green valleys. Then again we came upon lush meadow patches, wide and lonely in the midst of the hills. Still the road wound on, down through ravines, up over steep hillsides. Not a house was to be seen, only the lonely forest and the deepening darkness. It looked as if we must spend the night in the woods. At last we came out through a rough gate into the main road and reading a sign by the light of a match found that we were a mile from Julian. It was good to reach the tiny village and to find the Robinson House, a very clean and respectable village inn, kept by an old colored soldier and his wife. They gave us an excellent supper and we found a very comfortable bed awaiting us. We had taken a road through the mountain district back of a beautiful summer inn, known as the Pine Hills Inn, and had wandered over the drives planned for the pleasure of summer guests.

We saw the Pine Hills Inn perched upon the hillside, the next morning. It was only a short distance from where we had struck the main road for Julian. We had fully intended to spend a night at this famous little inn, but must leave that for the next time. Julian is famed for its apples, growing nearly 4000 feet high. We saw a charming picture of blossoming apple trees, grown against a dark background of tall mountain pines which flanked the orchard slope. There is a famous view near Julian. Looking down from a break in the hills one sees far, far beyond and below the grey stretches of the desert and the Salton sea.

From Julian we drove on to Warner's Hot Springs, where many people resort for the healing power of the Springs, and where a pleasant little hotel, surrounded by cottages, makes a delightful stopping place for those who wish to enjoy the sunshine and to pierce the defiles of the mountains back of the valley of the Springs. The Springs are on a great ranch which covers thousands of acres and supports hundreds of cattle. To reach them one drives over long stretches of plain, partly rich grass, where cattle feed, partly somewhat barren country.

Leaving the Hot Springs, we drove again across the vast sandy stretches and the rich green plains of the Warner Ranch, coming from there through picturesque and somewhat broken country to the little Pala Mission. Before reaching the Mission one comes along a mountain road cut like a shelf into the hill and very high above the valley. The little town which is the seat of the Mission is reached by a long descent. The most interesting thing about the Mission now is its bells, which are set so that the wall in whose open niches they are hung makes a picturesque framework for them. Leaving the town we came on through a deep and rocky canyon, whose scenery was wild and mountainous. From this we emerged into a broad valley which grew more beautiful as we traveled northward. Wide grain ranches stretched away to the right, walled in by the massive ramparts of Nellie Palomar Mountain. Other ranches stretched to the left, ending in the foothills in rich groves of olive trees. We were traveling through Temecula on our way to Elsinore, a town of hot springs. There we spent a comfortable night at a hotel situated on a little lake. The lake in the evening light with the olive orchards stretching down to its waters from the foothills opposite was very charming. From Elsinore we drove on in the morning through an open canyon, where Matilija poppies grew plentifully, to Corona. Corona is a lovely little town belted by an encircling boulevard, broad and shaded. It lies in a fertile valley whose plains and hill-slopes are covered by thousands of lemon trees, tended with a mother's care. Above the valley rise the mountains on the distant horizon. One can see lemons being gathered, flowers blooming, and new groves being planted in the valley, and then look up to snow-capped peaks beyond. Here lemon orchards are valued at ,000 and more an acre. When the trees have reached the bearing stage and are in good condition, lemon orchard land is a gold mine. We heard of people who rented their orchards on the basis of ,000 value per acre, receiving interest on that valuation. We heard also of successful lemon growers who had purchased large acreages of lemon-bearing land at ,000 per acre and who had within two years after purchase marketed a crop of lemons whose selling price covered the entire amount paid for the orchard two years before.

We visited a big packing house and saw dark eyed Sicilians, alert and prosperous, sorting, cleaning, and packing the lemons. Everything proceeded with swiftness and yet with orderliness. Down the long troughs rolled the lemons, each gravitating through a hole according to its size. Into a bubbling cauldron they were gently railroaded, where brushes from above and from below washed them and pushed them on. With much deftness packers caught a square of tissue paper with the left hand, a lemon with the right hand and wrapped the fruit. The filled box was pushed along a polished runway to the inspector. He deftly and quickly looked the box over, decided whether the packing was close and firm, nailed on a top, and bound the box with supporting iron bands. It was then ready to go into the freight car on the track a few feet away, where experienced men were loading the car with the yellow fruit. We were told that notwithstanding competition with the Sicilian and Italian fruit, California lemons had all the market their owners could wish for. Certainly when one sees the care with which the fruit is grown, the mellow sun under which it matures, and the skillful gathering, cleaning, and packing of the packing houses, one wishes every right of way for California lemons. One lemon grower told us that in the course of the past twenty years he had advanced hundreds of dollars to his Sicilian laborers who had asked his help to bring over their fathers, their brothers, and other relatives. He said that kinsman after kinsman had been brought over and had added himself and his work to the Corona colony, and that their benefactor had never lost a dollar. All the loans had been conscientiously returned in the course of time.

Californians look forward to a great flood of immigration within the next few years, and hope that Europe will send them the men to till their lands and cultivate their rich valleys and hill-slopes. There is plenty of room for them in this splendid empire of a State.

It was an easy drive from Corona to Riverside, which we reached in the late afternoon in time for a sunset drive up and around the corkscrew road leading to the top of Mt. Rubidoux. No one should miss the view from the top of Rubidoux Mountain. While its summit is not at a great height, yet the mountain is so isolated and the whole surrounding country is so level a valley that the view is very extensive. One looks down upon the town of Riverside, with its pleasant homes and church steeples; and upon miles of lemon and orange orchards groomed to the last degree of fertility and perfection. It is an immense garden. Orchards, towns, grassy spaces with a silver river winding through them, all give one that sense, ever present in California, of happiness, of genial climate, of unfailing beauty of surrounding.

At Riverside one stays of course, even if but for a night, at the famous Mission Inn, known as the Glenwood. Here is the creation of a man who has brought together in unique and pleasing combination the features of an inn, of a great curio shop, of a cathedral, of a happy lounging place. You may study for hours antique pieces of furniture; old tapestries, old bells, old bits of stained glass. You may spend an evening in the great music hall with its cathedral seats and listen to the organ played by a finished and yet popular artist. You may lounge in an easy chair on a cloistered porch. All these and many other things you may do at the wonderful Mission Inn. But the open road called us and we had time for only one night in Riverside. We drove from Riverside to Redlands, a particularly charming town. It has a better situation than Riverside, being on a slope instead of upon a level plain. It has beautiful streets and hosts of lovely winter homes of most attractive architecture. The drive up to Smiley Heights, where one runs through exquisite gardens along a narrow ridge, looking down upon a green cultivated valley on the one side, and a polished winter city on the other side, is a delightful experience.

From Redlands we drove on to San Bernardino and thence to Pomona and Claremont. The San Bernardino Valley has miles of grapes, the vineyards being on an immense scale. In California the grapes are not trained upon arbors. The stalks are kept low, and in looking over a vineyard one sees long rows of low growing, stocky vines, and masses of green foliage. In San Bernardino they have a fashion of planting windbreaks of evergreens around their gardens and smaller vineyards; but there are also immense stretches of open country planted with vines. One vineyard of three thousand acres has a sign announcing that it is the largest vineyard in the world. Pomona and Claremont are pleasant towns, Pomona being the seat of a college. From Claremont we drove on to Pasadena. There are lovely drives about Pasadena, and one should not neglect to go up along the foothills and from that point of vantage look down upon the town spread out on the slopes below. There is now a motor drive up Mt. Wilson, from which one has extremely grand views, but the Mt. Wilson drive is to be recommended only to people with small, light machines which have a short turning base. The mountain road is by no means the equal of the roads one finds in the Alps. It is too narrow and too hazardous for any but small machines. For most tourists the nine miles of the Mt. Wilson road would better be traversed on donkey-back. For those who love to climb, the winding road is a delightful walk with views of changing grandeur. The hotel at the top is a very pleasant place to stay, and one may have there the glories of the sunset and the sunrise.

The most lovely avenue in Pasadena, up and down which one should drive several times, is Orange Grove Avenue. Along the street the feathery pepper tree and the palm alternate. The strikingly handsome electric lamp standards are of bronze. Open lawns are characteristic settings for the beautiful houses which line the avenue. There are many houses of white or yellow stucco, some of them set off by delicate iron balconies. Leaving the finished beauty of Orange Avenue we drove over a great canyon across which is flung a very ornamental bridge. The canyon has been turned into a park, and fine houses stand on its banks, commanding from their heights wonderful views.

We came on through Burbank and once more into the San Fernando Valley, just being opened up. Here and there were tiny houses and sometimes tents, the first shelters of settlers who were cultivating their newly acquired patches of land. We saw people cleaning and plowing their land. Off to the right were beautiful mountains with houses and ranches nestled in the foothills. We drove through the new town of San Fernando and over the fine highway of the Newhall grade, passing through a tunnel and going on to Saugus by a splendid road running all the way from Pasadena. Just after leaving San Fernando we came through Sylmar, where a big sign told us that we were passing "the largest olive orchard in the world." This is the property of the Los Angeles Olive Growers' Association. We drove for more than a mile past the ranks of grey-green trees which stretched away back to the foothills.

From Saugus we turned toward Mint Canyon. We were now about to cross the great backbone of California, running north and south and dividing the valleys of the coast from the valleys of the interior. We could have crossed by the Tehachapi Pass, but preferred for this time to drive through Mint Canyon and over the Tejon Pass. All along the Canyon we saw little homesteads planted in pocket valleys. Here and there were green spots; orchards newly set out, patches of grain beginning to grow. Little wooden shacks showed where the homesteaders had first sheltered their household goods. The settlers themselves were working in their fields and orchards. There were long stretches, too, of rough country where tall yuccas, sometimes ten feet high, were blooming. At Palmdale we came out into a great plain, the mountains in the distance. A high wind was blowing, filling our eyes with dust. Somewhere on the plain the searching wind whipped my lightweight motor coat out of the tonneau where I had stowed it and I saw it no more. It was literally blown out of sight and knowledge. We had seen all along advertisements of "Palmdale Acres," and we now came to the little town itself, a tiny settlement with flamboyant signs advertising its high hopes. We read, "Keep your eye on Palmdale, 10,000 people in 1925." Close to the sign was the irrigation ditch with a thick stream of water rushing through. We realized that all the hopes of Palmdale and all the possibilities of future population were centered in that stream, which was to carry life and fertility to the great dusty plains before us.

We had taken luncheon at Acton, a sordid little place with an extremely unattractive wooden hotel, poor and bare. The luncheon, cooked and served by a hard working landlady, had been better than appearances promised. We had had hot beefsteak, a good boiled potato, some crisp lettuce, and fair tea. Western people are addicted to green tea, a great affliction to one accustomed to black tea. Western hotel keepers would do well to use black tea for their tourists, as the use of green tea is, so far as I know, almost unknown in the East.

Our road was rising now and we were approaching Neenach. We were driving along the foothills on the high side of another great valley. As we came near Neenach we passed an orchard to our right, the trees loaded with beautiful, velvety green almonds. To the left was another orchard, filled with neglected, dying almond trees. We had not known whether we would find at Neenach a little town or a corner grocery store. It turned out to be simply a post office in the home of a young settler who with his wife was just making his start at ranching. He was a delightful young fellow with shining white teeth, clear eyes, and an enthusiasm that was pleasant to see. A big St. Bernard dog protected his wife, who looked very picturesque in her riding costume. Although the ranchman had been brought up in a city, he had come out to these foothills, bought one hundred and sixty acres at .50 an acre, driven his well forty feet, got his water, and planted his cottonwood trees for his first shade. He was soon to plant his orchard and start his garden. He told us that he would have plenty of water, as the mountains on whose foot-slopes the farm lay were nine miles deep and fifteen miles long. I asked him about the orchards which we had just passed, so fruitful on the right, so sad and neglected on the left. He said that the almond orchards on the left had been planted years ago by a little colony of people who had three bad years following their planting. They became discouraged and moved away, abandoning their orchards and houses. The orchards which we had seen full of fruit were of a later planting.

We asked why it was that the great spaces of Antelope Valley which stretched below the hills and off to the mountains beyond had not been taken by settlers. Our young ranchman explained that the valley which looked to be about eight miles across was really thirty miles wide, and that it was too far from water for people to settle there. I looked over the immense stretches of the valley and at the masses of tall, spiky tree-yuccas, and wished that some way might be found to irrigate those thousands of acres. If some modern Moses could strike water from a rock, which would flow through Antelope Valley, our young settler would someday look down upon hundreds of houses and white tents instead of upon lonely forests of yucca.

We drove on from Neenach to the top of the grade, some 4230 feet. Huge round-shouldered hills, bare and lonely, rose on each side of us. Coming to the Lebec ranch house, we asked shelter for the night. These ranch houses are very hospitable and are willing to take the place of a hotel so far as they are able. We found the head of the house in some confusion and anxiety. His cook had left that morning and the settlement school ma'am had offered to help with the cooking in the emergency. One of the ranchmen volunteered to make the bed in our sleeping room, although he confessed that he had never made a bed in all his life before. We ate our supper with the ranchmen, sitting at an oil-cloth-covered table. We had hunks of cold meat, noodle soup with very thick, hearty noodles, stewed dried peaches, sliced onions, stewed tomatoes, and good bread and coffee. After a talk before a blazing open fire with two young electric engineers who, like ourselves, had sought shelter for the night, we had a dreamless night's slumber.

In the morning we had a most interesting breakfast with a long table full of hungry ranchmen. Next us sat a big fellow who was in a rather pessimistic mood. He spoke sadly of California and its resources and very warmly of Virginia. "That's the place to live!" he said. "You can drive for a hundred miles here and not see a ranch house or a schoolhouse or a church worth looking at. In Virginia it's just like, as a fellow says, 'every drink you take, things look different.' You drive up on a knoll, and you see before you a lovely farm with a nice farmhouse, and a well-built barn and outhouses. Then you drive over another knoll, and you see another nice farmhouse. Virginia and the East for me! In this country you can walk through foxtail grass until you're ruined, and you see no buildings worth looking at." This started animated discussion as to the merits of California compared with the merits of Eastern farming country, the young school ma'am vibrating between the little kitchen and the dining room and taking her part in the conversation. She was from Indiana, and told me that while she liked California she did not approve of California's neglect of history in the public schools. She felt that the children were given no knowledge of ancient or of modern history in the teaching scheme. She assured me that her own pupils were taught history very faithfully.

We were sorry to leave the ranch with its low houses and its pretty lake in the foreground. We drove on down the Pass, coming over rather precipitous roads to a last steep slope from whose height we looked off to an immense level valley which seemed to stretch away forever. Violet morning lights hung over it and it looked like an enchanted country. This was our first view of the San Joaquin Valley, through which we were to drive for many miles.

As we began to cross the valley, coming first through rather dull, scrubby stretches, I saw acres of a delicate pink and white bell-shaped flower, somewhat like a morning glory, growing close to the ground, blooming luxuriantly in the midst of a whorl of green leaves. I later asked a country woman the name of the flower, but she could only tell me that they called the lovely delicate things sand flowers. As we approached Bakersfield the land grew richer and the grass was thicker and greener. Meadow larks were flying about in great numbers, singing their sweet, clear song. At Bakersfield we stopped at the New Southern Hotel, which is, like most Western hotels, European in plan. We found a delightful cafeteria known as the Clock Tower Cafeteria, kept by two women, and with most appetizing home cooking. Bakersfield is one of the most Western of California towns. Something in the swing of its citizens as they walk along, something in the wide sombreros and high boots which the visiting cowboys wear imparts a general breeziness and Western atmosphere. It is a little town with the clothes of a big town. It has very wide streets and is laid out on a generous scale. Its fine Courthouse, its beautiful new schoolhouse, its pretty homes, its residence streets with their rows of blooming oleanders, pink and white, make it an attractive town. But it must be confessed that it is very hot in Bakersfield, as it is in most towns of the San Joaquin and Sacramento Valleys. The most interesting thing to me in Bakersfield was a leather shop, where I saw handsome Mexican saddles, very intricately and ornately stamped. These are made to order and have any amount of beautiful work upon them. At the same shop I saw handsome stamped belts and leather coin cases, long leather cuffs which cowboys affect, and tall riding boots with ornate stitching. When we left Bakersfield we saw just outside the town a perfect forest of oil derricks towering into the air, some of the wells being new ones, others having been abandoned. Bakersfield is the center of a rich oil territory, from which much wealth has flowed.

In leaving the town we turned by mistake to the right instead of to the left, and found ourselves traveling toward a Grand Canyon on a miniature scale. We were driving over lonely country where the water had worn the hills into fantastic shapes and where the whole country was a series of terraces. Sometimes small tablelands stood up boldly before us, sometimes cone-shaped pieces of plateau, like small volcanoes, appeared in long rows beyond us. Beautiful purple mists and shadows hung over these carvings of nature as the sun began to decline. The country grew lonelier and wilder, and we decided that we must retrace our journey and find out where we were. As we came near to Bakersfield again we saw the camp of an engineer who was making some borings for oil. He told us that we had taken the wrong turn and directed us on our way, past the tall derricks and northeast to Tulare.

So we turned our backs on the browns, yellows, and slate colors, the pinks and the lavenders of the lonely tableland country and struck north along a very fair road. We drove for twenty miles through rather level, brown, desert country, coming then into a grain country. All along there were pump houses on the ranches, connected with the electric current by heavy wires which ran from the main lines along the road to the little houses in the fields. I liked to think that the magic current streamed down those side wires from the main river of electricity, worked the pumps and brought up the water that made the whole country the fertile, grain-growing region it evidently was. We ate supper at the McFarland Hotel some twenty-five miles from Bakersfield. Our Wisconsin hostess who talked with us while her Japanese cook prepared our supper told us that three years ago there were only a few people living in tents in this region. Now the wells are down and there is a prosperous little town, the water being found only thirty feet below the surface. We came on through more fields of ripe wheat and green alfalfa. We saw one settler's tent pitched in the midst of a beautiful almond orchard, with great stacks of alfalfa near by. His wellhouse was near, and some day in the golden future he will undoubtedly build his dwelling.

Eleven miles from Tulare a tall country boy came out from the shadows as we passed through a little village and asked if he might ride to Tulare with us. We tucked away his bulky newspaper bundle in the machine and gave him permission to sit on the tool box, which was fastened on the running-board. He thanked us warmly when we reached the quiet streets of Tulare and offered to pay us, but of course we assured him that we were glad to have given him a lift. We did not often do this as we were always afraid some one would be hurt in riding on the running-board. We had a comfortable room at the Hotel St. Maxon, and drove on the next day through the fertile valley to Fresno. Now we were in the region of rich vineyards and luxuriant fig trees. For the first time, as we approached Fresno, I saw whole orchards of fig trees. Fresno is a pretty town with the wide, bright streets and look of prosperity of so many California towns. It is the home of several thousand Armenian and Greek workers. Only that morning the Young Women's Christian Association had welcomed to Fresno a little woman who had come all the way from Constantinople to meet her husband. The town pays the price for being the seat of the raisin industry by being very hot in summer.

From Fresno we drove across somewhat uninteresting country, rolling and solitary, diversified only by grain fields and stacks of alfalfa, to Madera. At Madera we turned our faces toward the high Sierras, going on to Raymond with a view to driving over the mountain road to Wawona, one of the gates of the Yosemite and very near to the famous Mariposa Grove of Big Trees.

When we reached Raymond we had left the valleys behind us and were in the rough country preceding the long climb up through the high Sierras to Wawona. It was late afternoon, and as we drove along we enjoyed the wooded hills and the far views over deep gulleys to the mountains beyond, in the afternoon sunshine. We met but few people on the steep, rocky mountain road. At one point we passed a roadside group of campers for the night. They had unharnessed their weary horses, had built a fire, and were preparing their supper. The water-trough used by travelers was close by, and they had pure spring water for their needs. There were two families, with a host of children, going up into the pine woods to one of the sawmills where the men were to work. The young mother of one family had with her a little three-weeks-old baby, fat and rosy-looking as his proud father held him before the fire. The poor mother was very weary and disheartened. "I am not used to this," she said, as she folded up some bits of clothing that she had been washing for the children. The wagons looked as if furniture and clothing had been piled in "higgledy pigglety." The children and their parents slept as best they could on top of this lumpy mass. One little girl of twelve or so had a tear-stained face and a look of real suffering in her blue eyes. She had hurt her ankle in running up and down the mountain roads with the other children. I felt sorry for the poor child, as it was evident that her sprained ankle would have little care in this itinerant household. We were glad that the tired company had the mild evening air in which to lie down and rest.

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