FAMILIAR HOME-SCENES
1854
Many of the houses, as I have related, were clustered around and north
of the Plaza Church, while the hills surrounding the pueblo to the
West were almost bare. These same hills have since been subdivided and
graded to accommodate the Westlake, the Wilshire, the West Temple and
other sections. Main and Spring streets were laid out beyond First,
but they were very sparsely settled; while to the East of Main and
extending up to that street, there were many large vineyards without a
single break as far south as the Ninth Street of to-day, unless we
except a narrow and short lane there. To enable the reader to form an
accurate impression of the time spent in getting to a nearby point, I
will add that, to reach William Wolfskin's home, which was in the
neighborhood of the present Arcade Depot, one was obliged to travel
down to Aliso Street, thence to Alameda, and then south on Alameda to
Wolfskin's orchard. From Spring Street, west and as far as the coast,
there was one huge field, practically unimproved and undeveloped, the
swamp lands of which were covered with tules. All of this land, from
the heart of the present retail district to the city limits, belonged
to the municipality. I incline to the opinion that both Ord and
Hancock had already surveyed in this southwestern district; but
through there, nevertheless, no single street had as yet been cut.
[Illustration: J. P. Newmark
From a vignette of the sixties]
[Illustration: O. W. Childs]
[Illustration: Jacob Rich]
[Illustration: John O. Wheeler]
[Illustration: Benjamin D. Wilson]
[Illustration: Dr. Obed Macy]
[Illustration: George Hansen]
[Illustration: Samuel C. Foy]
Not merely at the Plaza, but throughout Los Angeles, most of the
houses were built of adobe, or mud mixed with straw and dried for
months in the sun; and several fine dwellings of this kind were
constructed after I came. The composition was of such a nature that,
unless protected by roofs and verandas,[8] the mud would slowly wash
away. The walls, however, also requiring months in which to dry, were
generally three or four feet thick; and to this as well as to the
nature of the material may be attributed the fact that the houses in
the summer season were cool and comfortable, while in winter they were
warm and cheerful. They were usually rectangular in shape, and were
invariably provided with _patios_ and corridors. There was no such
thing as a basement under a house, and floors were frequently earthen.
Conventionality prescribed no limit as to the number of rooms, an
adobe frequently having a sitting-room, a dining-room, a kitchen and
as many bedrooms as were required; but there were few, if any,
"frills" for the mere sake of style. Most adobes were but one story in
height, although there were a few two-story houses; and it is my
recollection that, in such cases, the second story was reached from
the outside. Everything about an adobe was emblematic of hospitality:
the doors, heavy and often apparently home-made, were wide, and the
windows were deep. In private houses, the doors were locked with a
key; but in some of the stores, they were fastened with a bolt fitted
into iron receptacles on either side. The windows, swinging on hinges,
opened inward and were locked in the center. There were few curtains
or blinds; wooden shutters, an inch thick, also fastening in the
center, being generally used instead. If there were such conveniences
as hearths and fireplaces, I cannot recollect them, although I think
that here and there the _brasero_, or pan and hot coals, was still
employed. There were no chimneys, and the smoke, as from the kitchen
stove, escaped through the regular stacks leading out through a pane
in the window or a hole in the wall. The porches, also spoken of as
verandas and rather wide, were supported by equidistant perpendicular
posts; and when an adobe had two stories, the veranda was also
double-storied. Few if any vines grew around these verandas in early
days, largely because of the high cost of water. For the same reason,
there were almost no gardens.
The roofs which, as I have intimated, proved as necessary to preserve
the adobe as to afford protection from the semi-tropical sun, were
generally covered with asphalt and were usually flat in order to keep
the tar from running off. As well as I can recollect, Vicente
Salsido--or Salcito, as his name was also written--who lived in or
somewhere near Nigger Alley, was the only man then engaged in the
business of mending pitch-roofs. When winter approached and the first
rainfall produced leaks, there was a general demand for Salsido's
services and a great scramble among owners of buildings to obtain
them. Such was the need, in fact, that more than one family, drowned
out while waiting, was compelled to move to the drier quarters of
relatives or friends, there to stay until the roofer could attend to
their own houses. Under a huge kettle, put up in the public street,
Salsido set fire to some wood, threw in his pitch and melted it. Then,
after he or a helper had climbed onto the roof, the molten pitch was
hauled up in buckets and poured over the troublesome leaks. Much of
this tar was imported from the North, but some was obtained in this
locality, particularly from so-called springs on the Hancock ranch,
which for a long time have furnished great quantities of the useful,
if unattractive, substance. This asphalt was later used for sidewalks,
and even into the eighties was employed as fuel. To return to Salsido,
I might add that in summer the pitch-roofer had no work at all.
Besides the adobes with their asphalt roofs, some houses, erected
within the first quarter of the Nineteenth Century, were covered with
tiles. The most notable tiled building was the old Church, whose roof
was unfortunately removed when the edifice was so extensively
renovated. The Carrillo home was topped with these ancient tiles, as
were also José María Ábila's residence; Vicente Sanchez's two-story
adobe south of the Plaza, and the Alvarado house on First Street,
between Main and Los Angeles streets.
It was my impression that there were no bricks in Los Angeles when I
first came, although about 1854 or 1855 Jacob Weixel had the first
regular brickyard. In conversation with old-timers, however, many
years ago, I was assured that Captain Jesse Hunter, whom I recall, had
built a kiln not far from the later site of the Potomac Block, on Fort
Street, between Second and Third; and that, as early as 1853, he had
put up a brick building on the west side of Main Street, about one
hundred and fifty feet south of the present site of the Bullard Block.
This was for Mayor Nichols, who paid Hunter thirty dollars a thousand
for the new and more attractive kind of building material. This
pioneer brick building has long since disappeared. Hunter seems to
have come to Los Angeles alone, and to have been followed across the
plains by his wife, two sons and three daughters, taking up his
permanent residence here in 1856. One of the daughters married a man
named Burke, who conducted a blacksmith and wagon shop in Hunter's
Building on Main Street. Hunter died in 1874. Dr. William A. Hammel,
father of Sheriff William Hammel, who came to California during the
gold excitement of '49, had one of the first red brick houses in Los
Angeles, on San Pedro Street, between Second and Third.
Sometime in 1853, or perhaps in 1854, the first building erected by
the public in Los Angeles County was put together here of brick baked
in the second kiln ever fired in the city. It was the Town Jail on the
site of the present Phillips Block,[9] at the northwest corner of
Spring and Franklin streets. This building took the place of the first
County Jail, a rude adobe that stood on the hill back of the present
National Government Building. In that jail, I have understood, there
were no cells, and prisoners were fastened by chains to logs outside.
_Zanja_ water was being used for irrigation when I arrived. A system
of seven or eight _zanjas_, or open ditches--originated, I have no
doubt, by the Catholic Fathers--was then in operation, although it
was not placed under the supervision of a _Zanjero_, or Water
Commissioner, until 1854. These small surface canals connected at the
source with the _zanja madre_, or mother ditch, on the north side of
the town, from which they received their supply; the _zanja madre_
itself being fed from the river, at a point a long way from town. The
_Zanjero_ issued permits, for which application had to be made some
days in advance, authorizing the use of the water for irrigation
purposes. A certain amount was paid for the use of this water during a
period of twelve hours, without any limit as to the quantity consumed,
and the purchaser was permitted to draw his supply both day and night.
Water for domestic uses was a still more expensive luxury. Inhabitants
living in the immediate neighborhood of _zanjas_, or near the river,
helped themselves; but their less-fortunate brethren were served by a
carrier, who charged fifty cents a week for one bucket a day, while he
did not deliver on Sunday at all. Extra requirements were met on the
same basis; and in order to avoid an interruption in the supply,
prompt settlement of the charge had to be made every Saturday evening.
This character was known as Bill the Waterman. He was a tall American,
about thirty or thirty-five years old; he had a mustache, wore long,
rubber boots coming nearly to his waist, and presented the general
appearance of a laboring man; and his somewhat rickety vehicle, drawn
by two superannuated horses, slowly conveyed the man and his barrel of
about sixty gallons capacity from house to house. He was a wise
dispenser, and quite alert to each household's needs.
Bill obtained his supply from the Los Angeles River, where at best it
was none too clean, in part owing to the frequent passage of the river
by man and beast. Animals of all kinds, including cattle, horses,
sheep, pigs, mules and donkeys, crossed and recrossed the stream
continually, so that the mud was incessantly stirred up, and the
polluted product proved unpalatable and even, undoubtedly,
unhealthful. To make matters worse, the river and the _zanjas_ were
the favorite bathing-places, all the urchins of the hamlet disporting
themselves there daily, while most of the adults, also, frequently
immersed themselves. Both the yet unbridged stream and the _zanjas_,
therefore, were repeatedly contaminated, although common sense should
have protected the former to a greater or less extent; while as to the
latter there were ordinances drawn up by the Common Council of 1850
which prohibited the throwing of filth into fresh water designed for
common use, and also forbade the washing of clothes on the _zanja_
banks. This latter regulation was disobeyed by the native women, who
continued to gather there, dip their soiled garments in the water,
place them on stones and beat them with sticks, a method then popular
for the extraction of dirt.
Besides Bill the Waterman, Dan Schieck was a water-vender, but at a
somewhat later date. Proceeding to the _zanja_ in a curious old cart,
he would draw the water he needed, fresh every morning, and make daily
deliveries at customers' houses for a couple of dollars a month.
Schieck forsook this business, however, and went into draying, making
a specialty of meeting Banning's coaches and transferring the
passengers to their several destinations. He was a frugal man, and
accumulated enough to buy the southwest corner of Franklin and Spring
streets. As a result, he left property of considerable value. He died
about twenty-five years ago; Mrs. Schieck, who was a sister of John
Fröhling, died in 1874.
Just one more reference to the drinking-water of that period. When
delivered to the customer, it was emptied into _ollas_, or urn-shaped
vessels, made from burned clay or terra cotta. Every family and every
store was provided with at least one of these containers which, being
slightly porous, possessed the virtue (of particular value at a time
when there was no ice) of keeping the water cool and refreshing. The
_olla_ commonly in use had a capacity of four or five gallons, and was
usually suspended from the ceiling of a porch or other convenient
place; while attached to this domestic reservoir, as a rule, was a
long-handled dipper generally made from a gourd. Filters were not in
use, in consequence of which fastidious people washed out their
_ollas_ very frequently. These wide-mouthed pots recall to me an
appetizing Spanish dish, known as _olla-podrida_, a stew consisting of
various spiced meats, chopped fine, and an equally varied assortment
of vegetables, partaken of separately; all bringing to mind, perhaps,
Thackeray's sentimental _Ballad of Bouillabaisse_. Considering these
inconveniences, how surprising it is that the Common Council, in 1853,
should have frowned upon Judge William G. Dryden's proposition to
distribute, in pipes, all the water needed for domestic use.
On May 16th, 1854, the first Masonic lodge--then and now known as
42--received its charter, having worked under special dispensation
since the preceding December. The first officers chosen were: H. P.
Dorsey, Master; J. Elias, Senior Warden; Thomas Foster, Junior Warden;
James R. Barton, Treasurer; Timothy Foster, Secretary; Jacob Rich,
Senior Deacon; and W. A. Smith, Tyler.
For about three decades after my arrival, smallpox epidemics visited
us somewhat regularly every other year, and the effect on the town was
exceedingly bad. The whole population was on such a friendly footing
that every death made a very great impression. The native element was
always averse to vaccination and other sanitary measures; everybody
objected to isolation, and disinfecting was unknown. In more than one
familiar case, the surviving members of a stricken family went into
the homes of their kinsmen, notwithstanding the danger of contagion.
Is it any wonder, therefore, when such ignorance was universal, that
the pest spread alarmingly and that the death-rate was high?
The smallpox wagon, dubbed the _Black Maria_, was a frequent sight on
the streets of Los Angeles during these sieges. There was an isolated
pesthouse near the Chavez Ravine, but the patients of the better class
were always treated at home, where the sanitation was never good; and
at best the community was seriously exposed. Consternation seized the
public mind, communication with the outside world was disturbed, and
these epidemics were the invariable signal for business disorder and
crises.
This matter of primitive sanitation reminds me of an experience. To
accommodate an old iron bath-tub that I wished to set up in my Main
Street home in the late sixties, I was obliged to select one of the
bedrooms; since, when my adobe was built, the idea of having a
separate bathroom in a house had never occurred to any owner. I
connected it with the _zanja_ at the rear of my lot by means of a
wooden conduit; which, although it did not join very closely, answered
all purposes for the discharge of waste water. One of my children for
several years slept in this combination bath- and bedroom; and
although the plumbing was as old-fashioned as it well could be, yet
during all that time there was no sickness in our family.
It was fortunate indeed that the adobe construction of the fifties
rendered houses practically fireproof since, in the absence of a
water-system, a bucket-brigade was all there was to fight a fire with,
and this rendered but poor service. I remember such a brigade at work,
some years after I came, in the vicinity of the Bell Block, when a
chain of helpers formed a relay from the nearest _zanja_ to the
blazing structure. Buckets were passed briskly along, from person to
person, as in the animated scene described by Schiller in the
well-known lines of _Das Lied von der Glocke_:
_Durch der Hände lange Kette
Um die Wette
Fliegt der Eimer_;[10]
a process which was continued until the fire had exhausted itself.
Francis Mellus had a little hand-cart, but for lack of water it was
generally useless. Instead of fire-bells announcing to the people that
a conflagration was in progress, the discharging of pistols in rapid
succession gave the alarm and was the signal for a general fusillade
throughout the neighboring streets. Indeed, this method of sounding a
fire-alarm was used as late as the eighties. On the breaking out of
fires, neighbors and friends rushed to assist the victim in saving
what they could of his property.
On account of the inadequate facilities for extinguishing anything
like a conflagration, it transpired that insurance companies would not
for some time accept risks in Los Angeles. If I am not mistaken, S.
Lazard obtained the first protection late in the fifties and paid a
premium of four per cent. The policy was issued by the Hamburg-Bremen
Company, through Adelsdorfer Brothers of San Francisco, who also
imported foreign merchandise; and Lazard, thereafter, as the Los
Angeles agent for the Hamburg-Bremen Company, was the first insurance
underwriter here of whom I have any knowledge. Adelsdorfer Brothers,
it is also interesting to note, imported the first Swedish matches
brought into California, perhaps having in mind cause and effect with
profit at both ends; they put them on the retail market in Los Angeles
at twenty-five cents a package.
This matter of fires calls to mind an interesting feature of the city
when I first saw it. When Henry, or Enrique Dalton sailed from
England, he shipped a couple of corrugated iron buildings, taking them
to South America where he used them for several years. On coming to
Los Angeles, he brought the buildings with him, and they were set up
at the site of the present corner of Spring and Court streets. In a
sense, therefore, these much-transported iron structures (one of
which, in 1858, I rented as a storeroom for wool) came to be among the
earliest "fire-proof" buildings here.
As early as 1854, the need of better communication between Los Angeles
and the outside world was beginning to be felt; and in the summer of
that year the Supervisors--D. W. Alexander, S. C. Foster, J.
Sepúlveda, C. Aguilar and S. S. Thompson--voted to spend one thousand
dollars to open a wagon road over the mountains between the San
Fernando Mission and the San Francisco _rancho_. A rather broad trail
already existed there; but such was its grade that many a pioneer,
compelled to use a windlass or other contrivance to let down his
wagon in safety, will never forget the real perils of the descent. For
years it was a familiar experience with stages, on which I sometimes
traveled, to attach chains or boards to retard their downward
movement; nor were passengers even then without anxiety until the
hill- or mountain-side had been passed.
During 1854, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Newmark and family, whom I had met,
the year before, for a few hours in San Francisco, arrived here and
located in the one-story adobe owned by John Goller and adjoining his
blacksmith shop. There were six children--Matilda, Myer J., Sarah,
Edward, Caroline and Harriet--all of whom had been born in New York
City. With their advent, my personal environment immediately changed:
they provided me with a congenial home; and as they at once began to
take part in local social activities, I soon became well acquainted.
My aunt took charge of my English education, and taught me to spell,
read and write in that language; and I have always held her efforts in
my behalf in grateful appreciation. As a matter of fact, having so
early been thrown into contact with Spanish-speaking neighbors and
patrons, I learned Spanish before I acquired English.
The Newmarks had left New York on December 15th, 1852, on the ship
_Carrington_, T. B. French commanding, to make the trip around the
Horn, San Francisco being their destination. After a voyage for the
most part pleasant, although not altogether free from disagreeable
features and marked by much rough weather, they reached the Golden
Gate, having been four months and five days on the ocean. One of the
enjoyable incidents _en route_ was an old-fashioned celebration in
which _Neptune_ took part when they crossed the equator. In a diary of
that voyage kept by Myer J. Newmark, mention is made that "our
Democratic President, Franklin Pierce, and Vice-President, William R.
King, were inaugurated March 4th, 1853;" which reminds me that some
forty years later Judge H. A. Pierce, the President's cousin, and his
wife who was of literary proclivities, came to be my neighbors in Los
Angeles. Mr. and Mrs. Newmark and their family remained in San
Francisco until 1854.
Joseph Newmark, formerly Neumark, born June 15th, 1799, was, I assume,
the first to adopt the English form of the name. He was genuinely
religious and exalted in character. His wife, Rosa, whom he married in
New York in 1835, was born in London on March 17th, 1808. He came to
America in 1824, spent a few years in New York, and resided for a
while in Somerset, Connecticut, where, on January 21st, 1831, he
joined the Masonic fraternity. During his first residence in New York,
he started the Elm Street Synagogue, one of the earliest in America.
In 1840, we find him in St. Louis, a pioneer indeed. Five years later
he was in Dubuque, Iowa, then a frontier village. In 1846, he once
more pitched his tent in New York; and during this sojourn he
organized the Wooster Street Congregation. Immediately after reaching
Los Angeles, he brought into existence the Los Angeles Hebrew
Benevolent Society, which met for some time at his home on Sunday
evenings, and which, I think, was the first charitable institution in
this city. Its principal objects were to care for the sick, to pay
proper respect, according to Jewish ritual, to the dead, and to look
after the Jewish Cemetery which was laid out about that time; so that
the Society at once became a real spiritual force and continued so for
several years. The first President was Jacob Elias. Although Mr.
Newmark had never served as a salaried Rabbi, he had been ordained
and was permitted to officiate; and one of the immediate results of
his influence was the establishment of worship on Jewish holidays,
under the auspices of the Society named. The first service was held in
the rear room of an adobe owned by John Temple. Joseph Newmark also
inspired the purchase of land for the Jewish Cemetery. After Rabbi
Edelman came, my uncle continued on various occasions to assist him.
When, in course of time, the population of Los Angeles increased, the
responsibilities of the Hebrew Benevolent Society were extended.
Although a Jewish organization, and none but Jews could become members
of it or receive burial in the Jewish Cemetery, its aim was to give
relief, as long as its financial condition would permit, to every
worthy person that appeared, whoever he was or whatever his creed.
Recalling this efficient organization, I may say that I believe myself
to be one of but two survivors among the charter members--S. Lazard
being the other.
Kiln Messer was another pioneer who came around the Horn about that
time, although he arrived here from Germany a year later than I did;
and during his voyage, he had a trying experience in a shipwreck off
Cape Verde where, with his comrades, he had to wait a couple of months
before another vessel could be signaled. Even then he could get no
farther toward his destination--the Golden Gate--than Rio de Janeiro,
where he was delayed five or six months more. Finally reaching San
Francisco, he took to mining; but, weakened by fever (an experience
common among the gold-seekers), he made his way to Los Angeles. After
brewing beer for a while at the corner of Third and Main streets,
Messer bought a twenty-acre vineyard which, in 1857, he increased by
another purchase to forty-five or fifty acres; and it was his good
fortune that this property was so located as to be needed by the Santa
Fé Railroad, in 1888, as a terminal. Toward the end of the seventies,
Messer, moderately well-to-do, was a grocer at the corner of Rose and
First streets; and about 1885, he retired.
Joseph Newmark brought with him to Los Angeles a Chinese servant, to
whom he paid one hundred dollars a month; and, as far as I know, this
Mongolian was the first to come to our city. This domestic item has
additional interest, perhaps, because it was but five or six years
before that the first Chinese to emigrate from the Celestial Kingdom
to California--two men and a lone woman--had come to San Francisco in
the ship _Eagle_ from Hong Kong. A year later, there were half a
hundred Chinamen in the territory, while at the end of still another
year, during the gold excitement, nearly a thousand Chinese entered
the Golden Gate.
The housekeeping experiences of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Newmark remind me
that it was not easy in the early days to get satisfactory domestic
service. Indians, negroes and sometimes Mexicans were employed, until
the arrival of more Chinese and the coming of white girls. Joseph
Newmark, when I lived with his family, employed, in addition to the
Chinaman, an Indian named Pedro who had come with his wife from
Temécula and whose remuneration was fifty cents a day; and these
servants attended to most of the household duties. The annual _fiesta_
at Temécula used to attract Pedro and his better-half; and while they
were absent, the Newmark girls did the work.
My new home was very congenial, not the least of its attractions being
the family associations at meal-time. The opportunities for obtaining
a variety of food were not as good perhaps as they are to-day, and yet
some delicacies were more in evidence. Among these I might mention
wild game and chickens. Turkeys, of all poultry, were the scarcest and
most-prized. All in all, our ordinary fare has not changed so much
except in the use of mutton, certain vegetables, ice and a few
dainties.
There was no extravagance in the furnishing of pioneer homes. Few
people coming to Los Angeles expected to locate permanently; they
usually planned to accumulate a small competency and then return to
their native heaths. In consequence, little attention was paid to
quality or styles, and it is hard to convey a comprehensive idea of
the prevailing lack of ordinary comforts. For many years the inner
walls of adobes were whitewashed--a method of mural finish not the
most agreeable, since the coating so easily "came off;" and only in
the later periods of frame houses, did we have kalsomined and
hard-finished wall surfaces. Just when papered and tinted walls came
in, I do not remember; but they were long delayed. Furniture was plain
and none too plentiful; and glassware and tableware were of an
inferior grade.
Certain vegetables were abundant, truck-gardening having been
introduced here in the early fifties by Andrew Briswalter, an Alsatian
by birth and an original character. He first operated on San Pedro
Street, where he rented a tract of land and peddled his vegetables in
a wheelbarrow, charging big prices. So quickly did he prosper that he
was soon able to buy a piece of land, as well as a horse and wagon.
When he died, in the eighties, he bequeathed a large estate,
consisting of City and County acreage and lots, in the disposition of
which he unrighteously cut off his only niece. Playa del Rey was later
built on some of this land. Acres of fruit trees, fronting on Main, in
the neighborhood of the present Ninth and Tenth streets, and extending
far in an easterly direction, formed another part of his holding. It
was on this land that Briswalter lived until his last illness. He
bought this tract from O. W. Childs, it having originally belonged to
H. C. Cardwell, a son-in-law of William Wolfskill--the same Cardwell
who introduced here, on January 7th, 1856, the heretofore unknown
seedling strawberries.
One Mumus was in the field nearly as soon as Briswalter. A few years
later, Chinese vegetable men came to monopolize this trade. Most of
their gardens neighbored on what is now Figueroa Street, north of
Pico; and then, as now, they peddled their wares from wagons. Wild
celery grew in quantities around the _zanjas_, but was not much liked.
Cultivated celery, on the other hand, was in demand and was brought
from the North, whence we also imported most of our cabbage,
cauliflower and asparagus. But after a while, the Chinese also
cultivated celery; and when, in the nineties, E. A. Curtis, D. E.
Smeltzer and others failed in an effort to grow celery, Curtis fell
back on the Chinese gardeners. The Orientals, though pestered by
envious workmen, finally made a success of the industry, helping to
establish what is now a most important local agricultural activity.
These Chinese vegetable gardeners, by the way, came to practice a
trick[11] designed to reduce their expenses, and at which they were
sometimes caught. Having bargained with the authorities for a small
quantity of water, they would cut the _zanjas_, while the _Zanjero_ or
his assistants slept, steal the additional water needed, and, before
the arrival of the _Zanjero_ at daybreak, close the openings!
J. Wesley Potts was an early arrival, having tramped across the Plains
all the way from Texas, in 1852, reaching Los Angeles in September. At
first, he could obtain nothing to do but haul dirt in a hand-cart for
the spasmodic patching-up of the streets; but when he had earned five
or six dollars in that way, he took to peddling fruit, first carrying
it around in a basket. Then he had a fruit stand. Getting the
gold-fever, however, Potts went to the mines; but despairing at last
of realizing anything there, he returned to Los Angeles and raised
vegetables, introducing, among other things, the first locally-grown
sweet potatoes put on the market--a stroke of enterprise recalling J.
E. Pleasants's early venture in cultivating garden pease. Later he was
widely known as a "weather prophet"--with predictions quite as likely
to be worthless as to come true.
The prickly pear, the fruit of the cactus, was common in early Los
Angeles. It grew in profusion all over this Southern country, but
particularly so around San Gabriel at which place it was found in
almost obstructing quantities; and prickly pears bordered the gardens
of the Round House where they were plucked by visitors. Ugly enough
things to handle, they were, nevertheless, full of juice, and proved
refreshing and palatable when properly peeled. Pomegranates and
quinces were also numerous, but they were not cultivated for the
trade. Sycamore and oak trees were seen here and there, while the
willow was evident in almost jungle profuseness, especially around
river banks and along the borders of lanes. Wild mustard charmingly
variegated the landscape and _chaparral_ obscured many of the hills
and rising ground. In winter, the ground was thickly covered with
burr-clover and the poetically-named _alfilaria_.
Writing of vegetables and fruit, I naturally think of one of
California's most popular products, the _sandía_ or watermelon, and of
its plenteousness in those more monotonous days when many and many a
_carreta_ load was brought to the indulging town. The melons were sold
direct from the vehicles, as well as in stores, and the street seemed
to be the principal place for the consumption of the luscious fruit.
It was a very common sight to see Indians and others sitting along the
roads, their faces buried in the green-pink depths. Some old-timers
troubled with diseases of the kidney, believing that there was virtue
in watermelon seeds, boiled them and used the tea medicinally.
Fish, caught at San Pedro and peddled around town, was a favorite item
of food during the cooler months of the year. The _pescadero_, or
vender, used a loud fish horn, whose deep but not melodious tones
announced to the expectant housewife that he was at hand with a load
of sea-food. Owing to the poorer facilities for catching them, only a
few varieties of deep-water fish, such as barracuda, yellowtail and
rockfish were sold.
Somewhere I have seen it stated that, in 1854, O. W. Childs brought
the first hive of bees from San Francisco at a cost of one hundred and
fifty dollars; but as nearly as I can recollect, a man named Logan
owned the first beehives and was, therefore, the pioneer
honey-producer. I remember paying him three dollars for a three-pound
box of comb-honey, but I have forgotten the date of the transaction.
In 1860, Cyrus Burdick purchased several swarms of bees and had no
difficulty in selling the honey at one dollar a pound. By the fall of
1861, the bee industry had so expanded that Perry & Woodworth, as I
have stated, devoted part of their time to the making of beehives. J.
E. Pleasants, of Santiago Cañon, known also for his Cashmere goats,
was another pioneer bee-man and received a gold medal for his exhibit
at the New Orleans Exposition.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Verandas, spoken of locally as _corridors_; from which fact I may
use both terms interchangeably.
[9] Recently razed.
[10] Translated by Perry Worden for the centenary of _The Song of the
Bell_:
Through each hand close-joined and waiting,
Emulating,
Flies the pail.
[11] History repeats itself: in 1915, ranchers at Zelzah were accused
of appropriating water from the new aqueduct, under cover of the
night, without paying for it.