SUNKIST

We saw a most amusing farce some time ago which contained much

interesting information concerning the worth of advertising. I forget

the fabulous figure at which "The Gold Dust Twins" trade-mark is valued,

but I know that it easily puts them into Charley Chaplin's class. I am

sure that "Sunkist" cannot be far behind the "Twins," for no single word

could possibly suggest a more luscious, delectable, and desirable fruit

than that. It would even take the curse off being a lemon to be a

"Sunkist" lemon. It contains no hint of the perilous early life of an

orange. Truly that life is more chancey than an aviator's. They say that

in the good old days there were no frosts, but that irrigation is

gradually changing the climate of Southern California. We would not dare

to express an opinion on this much discussed point, as we have never

gone to any new place where the climate has been able to stand the

shock. It is always an unusual season. I do know, however, that bringing

up a crop of oranges is as anxious an undertaking as "raising" a family.

Little black smudge pots stand in rows in the groves, ready to be

lighted at the first hint of frost. The admonition of the hymn applies

to fruit growers as well as to foolish virgins:

"See that your lamps are burning,

Your vessels filled with oil."

On sharp mornings the valleys are full of a gray haze still lingering

protectingly over the ranches. Then there are blights. I don't pretend

to know all the ills the orange is heir to. Sometimes it grows too fat

and juicy and cracks its skin, and sometimes it is attacked by scale.

Every tree has to be swathed in a voluminous sheet and fumigated once a

year at great expense. After living out here some time, I began to

understand why even in the heart of the orange country we sometimes pay

fifty cents a dozen for the large fruit. There is a way, however, of

getting around the high cost of living in this particular--you can go to

a packing house and buy for thirty-five cents an entire box of what are

called culls--oranges too large or too small for shipping, or with some

slight imperfection that would not stand transportation, but are as good

for most purposes as the "Sunkist" themselves.

In California, Orange Day is next in importance to Washington's Birthday

and the Fourth of July. I shall never forget our first experience of its

charms. We were motoring, taking a last jaunt in an old machine which we

had just sold for more than we ever had expected to get for it. It was a

reckless thing to do, for we had no spare tire and it is very like

speculating in oil stocks to start for a run of any length under those

circumstances. It worked out about as it would have done if we had been

trifling with the stock market. A rear tire blew out, and we were put

under the disagreeable necessity of giving our purchaser more nearly his

money's worth. This was a poor start for a holiday, but being near a

delightful inn, we crept slowly to town on our rim and found a fête

awaiting us. We also found friends from the East who asked us all to

lunch, thereby, as one member of the party put it in Pollyanna's true

spirit, much decreasing the price of the new tire. The inn is built in

Spanish style and we lunched in a courtyard full of gaudy parrots,

singing birds in wicker cages and singing señoritas as gay as the

parrots, on balconies above us. The entire menu was orange, or at least

colored orange. It was really charming, and our spirits rose to almost a

champagne pitch, though orange juice--diluted at that--was the only

beverage served. (I believe that there is a Raisin Day, also, but on

account of its horrid association with rice and bread puddings we have

let that slip by unnoticed.)

Our California color scheme is the very latest thing in decorative art.

There is nothing shrinking about us, for we come boldly forth in orange

and yellows in true cigar-ribbon style--even our motor licenses of last

year had poppies on them. Speaking of poppies, I heard the other day of

a lady who voiced her opinion in all seriousness in the paper, that Mr.

Hoover should have California poppy seeds sent to him for distribution

among the Belgians to sow over the ruins of their country. Of course

there is something in the power of suggestion, and I suppose it would

brighten up the landscape. Joedy is strong on the color idea. We had a

neighbor who had a terrible attack of jaundice, which turned her the

color of a daffodil. I was saying what a pity it was, then Joedy

observed: "Well, Muvs, I think she makes a nice bright spot of color!"

There is a road leading toward the San Fernando Valley, with fruit

stalls on both sides, very gay with oranges, grape-fruit, and lemons.

One particularly alluring stand is presided over by a colored mammy in

bandana shades, turban and all.

All this profusion makes one feel that it is no trick to get a living

out of this very impulsive soil, but before buying a plot of one's own,

it is wise to see the seasons through. California is a very unexpected

country. You see a snug little ranch, good soil, near a railroad, just

what you were looking for, but three months of the year it may be under

water. After the spring rains we once went for a change of air to one of

the beaches, which we particularly disliked, because it was the only

place that we could get to, bridges being out in all directions. For the

same reason it was so packed with other visitors, maybe as unwilling as

we, that we had a choice of sleeping in the park or taking a small

apartment belonging to a Papa and Mama Dane. It was full of green plush

and calla lilies, but we chose it in preference to the green grass and

calla lilies of the park. We passed an uneasy and foggy week there. I

slept in a bed which disappeared into a bureau and J---- on a lounge

that curled up like a jelly roll by day. Mama Dane gave us breakfast in

the family sitting-room where a placard hung, saying, "God hears all

that you say." J---- and I took no chances, and ate in silence. Anyway,

the eggs were fresh. We explored the country as well as we could in the

fog, and found quite a large part of it well under water. On one ranch

we met a morose gentleman in hip boots, wading about his property, which

looked like a pretty lake with an R. F. D. box sticking up here and

there like a float on a fishing line, while a gay party of boys and

girls were rowing through an avenue of pepper trees in an old boat. The

gentleman in the hip boots had bought his place in summer! J---- and I

decided then and there that if we ever bought any property in

California, it would be in the midst of the spring rains, but we know

now that even that wouldn't be safe--another element has to be reckoned

with besides water--fire.

Of course Rain in California is spelled with a capital R. Noah spelled

it that way, but we didn't before we came West. It swells the streams,

which in summer are nothing but trickles, to rushing torrents in no

time. Bridges snap like twigs, dams burst, telegraph lines collapse;

rivers even change their courses entirely, if they feel like it, so that

it would really be a good idea to build extra bridges wherever it seemed

that a temperamental river might decide to go. I have heard of a farmer

who wrote to one of the railroads, saying, "Will you please come and

take your bridge away from my bean-field? I want to begin ploughing."

This adds natural hazards to the real-estate game. There are

others--Fire, as I said a moment ago. I have a very profound respect for

the elements since we have come West to live. A forest fire is even more

terrifying than a flood, and in spite of the eagle eyes of the foresters

many are the lovely green slopes burned over each year. I have seen a

brush fire marching over a hill across the canyon from us, like an army

with banners--flying our colors of orange and yellow--driving terrified

rabbits and snakes ahead of it, and fought with the fervor of Crusaders

by the property owners in its path.

The very impulsiveness of the climate seems to give the most wonderful

results in the way of vegetables and fruit. Around Pasadena there are

acres and acres of truck gardens, developed with Japanese efficiency. I

love al fresco marketing. If I can find time once a week to motor up the

valley and fill the machine with beautiful, crisp, fresh green things of

all kinds, it makes housekeeping a pleasure. The little Japanese women

are so smiling and pleasant, with their "Good-by, come gen," the melons

are so luscious, the eternal strawberry so ripe and red, the orange

blossom honey so delectable, and everything is so cheap compared to what

we had been used to in the East! I think that in San Diego one can live

better on a small income than anywhere in the country. Once some

intimate friends of ours gave us a dinner there in January that could

not have been surpassed in New York. The menu included all the

delicacies in season and out of season, fresh mushrooms, alligator pears

and pheasants. J---- and I looked at one another in mingled enjoyment

and dismay that so much was being done for us. Finally our host could

not help telling us how much for each person this wonderful meal was

costing, including some very fetching drinks called "pink skirts." You

wouldn't believe me if I told how little!

One more delicacy of which we make rather a specialty: I should call it

a climate sandwich. If you live in the invigorating air of the

foothills, to motor to the sea, a run of some thirty miles from where we

live in winter, spend several hours on the sand, and before dark turn

"Home to Our Mountains" gives a mountain air sandwich with sea-breeze

filling--a singularly refreshing and satisfying dainty.

Perhaps my enthusiasm for California sounds a little like cupboard love.

There is a certain type of magazine which publishes the most alluring

pictures of food, salads and desserts, even a table with the implements

laid out ready for canning peaches, that holds a fatal fascination for

me. I have even noticed J---- looking at one with interest. When my

father comes out to visit us every spring, the truck gardens, the

packing houses, and the cost of living here, I think, affect him in much

the same way that those magazines do me, and I wonder if every one,

except a dyspeptic, doesn't secretly like to hear and see these very

things! Could it be the reason people used to paint so much still

life?--baskets of fruit, a hunter's game-bag, a divided melon, etc. I

frankly own that they would thrill me more if I knew their market price,

so that I might be imagining what delightful meals I could offer my

family without straining the household purse, which is my excuse for the

intimate details concerning food and prices which I have given.

Surely human beings ought to respond as the fruits do to this climate,

in spirit as well as in body, and become a very mellow, amiable,

sweet-tempered lot of people, and I think they do. Even the "culls" are

almost as good as the rest, though they won't bear transportation. It is

the land of the second chance, of dreams come true, of freshness and

opportunity, of the wideness of out-of-doors--"Sunkist!"