About two months ago I went to Los Angeles. There were seventeen in
the party, and we had a very nice time. I should like to tell you
about all we saw and did, but as that would take all the room in
the Post-office Box, I will just tell you about something I saw in
Los Angeles. We visited an old Hungarian, whose business was
training mocking-birds and raising flowers for market. He had about
one hundred large birds, and in a box by themselves a dozen or more
young birds. He placed their food on the end of a stick, and put it
through the wires of the cages, and each one would stretch out his
wings to keep the others away while eating it. When he came to the
little ones, they all opened their mouths, and then they did look
funny enough, for their throats are bright yellow, and one could
see little except mouths. He teaches them to whistle tunes very
sweetly. When they can not learn to sing, he turns them out; but
they stay near by, and he feeds them. There was one bird near our
camp that sang all night. The man had eleven dogs, and bought two
sacks of flour and two dollars' worth of meat a month for them. He
said he loved birds, dogs, and flowers better than human beings. We
were gone from home two weeks, and saw a great deal of Southern
California.