The descent lay through groves of pine and cedar, beds of beautiful
flowers, grassy glades, mountain brooks, tiny lakes, springs of ice
cold water, and acres and acres of azaleas.
In the center of a green glade lay a big brown bowlder surrounded by
flowers. Just under the side of this bowlder was a spring of ice cold
water.
Just as the sun was sliding down the western horizon beyond the
snow-capped peaks we arrived again in Wawona valley, where the evening
was spent in telling stories and relating adventures.
“When in London recently,” said our lawyer friend, “Chauncey Depew told
this story:
“At a hotel where he was dining the waitress said to a young man, ‘We
have blackberry pie, peach pie, plum pie, strawberry pie and custard
pie.’
“‘Bring me some plum pie and some peach pie, yes, and I’ll take some
blackberry pie.’ As the waitress turned to fill the order the young man
called her back, ‘You may bring me some strawberry pie, too.’
“‘What’s the matter with the custard pie?’ inquired she.
“The next morning Mr. Depew met a young Englishman on the street, who
complimented him on his speech, saying that he really liked it very,
very much, you know, but he would like to ask him one question, ‘What
was the matter with the custard pie?’”
When the laugh had subsided a young lady in a pink shirt waist leaned
forward in her chair, and looking earnestly at the lawyer, softly
inquired, “Well, what was?”
In the laugh which followed, the Englishman’s stupidity was lost sight
of in astonishment at that of the American girl.
“Excuse me,” said a well dressed lady to me one morning at the hotel in
Wawona, “I am a little hazy on my geography, but what I want to know is
this--if I go to Denver will I be in Colorado?”
After a week’s fishing, dreaming and resting in this beautiful valley,
we returned to the coast.
All up and down the Pacific coast as well as the islands of the sea
are wonderful floating gardens. These gardens are composed of kelp,
which attached to the bottom and to the rocks, grows from fifty to
one hundred feet long, throwing out broad leaves and balloon-like air
bulbs which support them. A perfect forest of broad green leaves rise
upward, presenting a sharp contrast to the blue water in which they
grow. Gracefully turning with every movement of the water they are
among the most strikingly beautiful objects of salt sea. When near the
shore these huge plants assume an upright position and become floating
gardens in very truth, through which vessels plow with much difficulty.
The entrance to the bay at Santa Barbara is a perfect maze of floating
sea-weed. The leaves are covered with patches of color, representing
parasitic animals, or plants, greens, reds, purples and yellows, a
perfect maze of color.
Delicate sea anemones looking exactly like their namesakes on land. The
slightest noise causes them to close up, withdrawing their tentacles,
and presently blooming out again.
Here are tiny plant-like animals growing in shrub-like forms.
Wonderful jellyfish, too, fill the ocean at night with a phosphorescent
light.
In place of birds and insects in a sea garden we find shell animals,
crabs and fishes clinging to the leaves. Along comes a big octopus
throwing out his eight sucker-lined arms in search of food. Disturbed,
he throws out an inky fluid, and while you are searching the black hole
for him, he slips away. Yonder comes a nautilus holding his shell high
over his head, crawling lazily along. Black-hued echini, bristling with
pins and needles which, waving to and fro, ward off their enemies. Fish
of all sorts and sizes inhabit the sea garden. The beautiful gold and
silver fishes gliding in and out remind one of the birds flitting from
tree to tree. In comes a big fish, the king of the bass, and the “small
fry” scatter right and left. At night these strange gardens are aglow
with phosphorescent lights.
Los Angeles has been having a succession of earthquakes.
The houses in San Francisco as well as other coast towns are built to
withstand earthquake shocks. On this account very few brick are used.
An earthquake hotel is advertised. In this city, too, one may eat
Pasteurized ice-cream without fear of the deadly ptomain.
An orange, as every one knows, is a difficult fruit to eat gracefully,
but I’ve learned how to do it in this land of the citron. A gentleman
assured me that the only proper place to eat an orange was in the
bathtub.
Up and down the length of this coast I’ve not been able to get a decent
lemonade. Very few places serve that drink at all. Drinks there are
plenty, but no lemonade. Now I know what those warnings mean which hang
up in every stateroom on the steamers: “Passengers strictly prohibited
from getting into bed with their boots on.”
California is rich in stories of her early days. Just east of San
Francisco lies a narrow valley bordering on the bay of San Pablo. The
first white man to enter this valley was one Miguel and his wife, who
named it El Hambre (Hunger) valley.
Miguel built an adobe hut and planted a garden. Later he started to
San Francisco, for supplies. Madam Miguel remained at home to tend the
garden. Miguel would return in three weeks and all would be well.
Time passed slowly to the lonely woman. When the three weeks had
passed Emilia packed a burro and started out on the trail which her
husband had taken. At night she tethered the burro and rolled in her
blanket slept by the roadside. Dawn saw her on the trail. The third day
her burro neighed and was answered by a donkey which proved to be that
of Miguel. Hurrying on she found her husband lying on the roadside,
dead. She remained there until the sun set, then covered him with a
blanket and returned home.
Later some traders wandering through the valley found her skeleton in
the garden. The adobe still stands in the now new town of Martinez.
Dick Brown, miner of Misery Hill, was a sort of recluse, who never made
any friends among the miners of the Eldorado of the west.
One day while out prospecting, a landslide carried him down the valley
and buried him beneath it. His body was recovered and buried, but his
ghost walked nightly at the foot of the old shaft.
A lazy, seemingly good-for-nothing sort of a fellow, Wilson by name,
began work in Brown’s mine. It was a good mine and paid Wilson well
until some one else began working it. Every morning there was evidence
that some one had been at work during the night.
One night Wilson loaded his rifle and waited for his nightly intruder.
Hearing a noise he started to follow it up.
What was that on yonder tree, which glowed with a phosphorescent light?
Wilson crept nearer. There, tacked on a big tree, was a notice, “D. B.
his mine. Hands off.”
A moment later the notice was gone. As he passed on he heard the water
flowing through the sluice and the sound of a pick in the gravel. There
stood Dick Brown. Wilson raised his rifle and fired. A yell, and the
ghost of Dick Brown came flying after him as he ran down the hill.
The next morning a pick and shovel were found by the roadside bearing
the initials “D. B.” cut on the handle of each. Wilson deserted the
claim, but the sluice on Misery Hill ran on for many years.