by Kate Sanborn
CHAPTER VIII.
CATCHING UP ON THE KITE-SHAPED TRACK.
Not the kite-shaped track of new-made trotting records and pneumatic tires, but a track upon which you may pass a pleasant day riding after the iron horse.
The route extends easterly from Los Angeles to San Bernardino via Pasadena. Beyond San Bernardino is the “loop,” which will take us twelve miles farther east to Mentone, and around an oval curve back to San Bernardino. Thence we kite down to Riverside, then southwesterly to Orange, and so up to Los Angeles. Leaving Los Angeles at 9 A.M. you may return by 4 P.M., with time for dinner at San Bernardino.
Taking the traveller back and forth across the central part of Southern California as it does, the kite-shaped trip is naturally a favorite with tourists, and, as its “catchy” name indicates, it caters to that element of travel. One always sees also anxious and eager “prospectors” or expectant settlers, who lose no opportunity to inquire all about citrus and deciduous fruits, and prices of land and of water for irrigating the same. This excursion will show you the heart of the orange belt or belts of Southern California, especially on the northern and eastern sides of the “kite.”
The schedule of trains allows of convenient stop-overs, and several may be made to advantage.
Pasadena and Riverside of course must not be passed by. A short stay at Orange or Anaheim gives an interesting glimpse of a region where orange culture is combined with that of other citrus fruits, as well as the grape and olive.
Aside from these points, the most interesting feature of the trip is the “loop” beyond San Bernardino. The town of San Bernardino is a thriving business centre. Perhaps it is on this account that its appearance from the car window is not as attractive as that of Riverside or Pasadena, which from all points of view seem peacefully embowered in half-tropic foliage. But away from the railroads San Bernardino also has its charming residence district, with the same general characteristics as its sister towns.
Upon the “loop” a stop should be made at Redlands, an interesting spot, where the successful culture of oranges is carried on at a much higher elevation than was thought possible until a few years ago. There is never any frost there to injure the fruit. The Hotel Terracina, on the heights, has a wondrous view, and the Smiley brothers, of “Lake Mohunk” celebrity, have fine grounds and homes on Cañon Crest, and are thinking of building a hotel.
The circuit of the “loop” reminds me of roving around upon the rim of a very large and shallow spoon, tilted upward toward Mentone at the smaller end. San Bernardino is 1075 feet above the sea, and Mentone 1640 feet. At that point we have nearly climbed the foothills, and are very close to the great mountains themselves. As we skim around upon the upper side of the “loop,” the long gradual slope from the foot of the mountains to the stream at the centre of the valley seems an ideal conformation for leading the irrigation streams from the mountains along the rows of orange trees which will soon entirely cover this valley.
Four miles from San Bernardino is the station of Arrowhead, from which we have a near view of the peak of nature which gives the place its name. It is a bare, gravelly tract on the side of the mountain, which, in contrast with the chaparral about it, takes the shape of an Indian arrowhead with a portion of the shaft attached. Covering a large area, the arrowhead is a landmark for many miles around. I could not help thinking that if a gang of Italian laborers were employed for a few days sharpening the outline of the arrowhead by cutting away bushes along the edge, and setting out others judiciously in the converted background, the effect of this interesting natural phenomenon might be much brightened. There are hot-springs at Arrowhead, and a hotel renders the varied attractions of the place available.
While we are kiting along let me tell you what I know about baskets made by the Indian women of the Pacific Coast of now and long ago, the last considered valuable and now commanding high prices. There are several experts on this subject in Pasadena—Mrs. Lowe, ex-Mayor Lukens, Mrs. Jeanne C. Carr, and Mrs. Belle Jewett, who has the most precious collection of all.
Mrs. Lowe has gathered together for her Basement Museum, which any State would be proud to own, all that she could find of special interest relative to the Indians of California—clothing, headdress, weapons, medicine charms, money, beads, and of course many baskets, for baskets are as indispensable to the Indian as the reindeer to the Esquimau. They were used as cradles, caps for the head when carrying burdens, wardrobes for garments not in use, granaries on roof, sifters for pounded meal, for carrying water, and keeping it for use, for cooking, receptacles for money, plaques to gamble on, and so on. And the basket plays an important part in their legends and folk-lore.
Mrs. Lowe determined to preserve these specimens, as tourists were rapidly carrying away all they could find of such relics, and soon the State would be without proofs to tell how the Indian of the past lived and fed and fought, bought and sold, how he was dressed, and how he amused himself.
Mrs. Ellen B. Farr, an artist in Pasadena who is famous for her success in painting the pepper tree and the big yellow poppy, with its reddish orange line changing toward petal tips to pale lemon, has also devoted her skill to pictures of such baskets grouped effectually—baskets now scattered all over the world, each with its own history, its own individuality, and no duplicate, for no two baskets are ever exactly similar.
The true way to obtain these baskets is, go a-hunting for them, not buy them at stores. They are handed down for generations as heirlooms originally, never intended for sale, and with the needles used in weaving, made usually of a fine bone from a hawk’s wing, and the gambling dice, are the carefully concealed family treasures. But sometimes by going yourself to see the aged squaws, or paying one who is familiar with their ways to explore for you, you may get a rich return. Baskets are of all sizes, from the little beauties no bigger than a teacup, woven finely and adorned with beads and bits of dyed feathers, to the granaries, or the storage baskets, holding half a ton, nine feet and nine inches in circumference, three feet deep. Mrs. Jewett showed me a photograph of one of this sort, in which she sat comfortably seated with her six-foot son and his wife. This had been in use more than fifty years, and was as fine as ever. Her one hundred and twenty-eight baskets represent twenty-eight tribes. In regard to the shapes and designs, the women seem to have copied straight from nature’s patterns, as seen in acorns, pine cones, seed vessels, etc., so they are truly artists.
Figures of men are sometimes woven in: those with heads on represent the victorious warriors; those decapitated depict the braves vanquished by the fighters of their special tribe. An open palm is sometimes seen; this is an emblem of peace.
Willow wands and stiff long-stemmed grasses are gathered and dried for these baskets, then woven in coils and increased as they go on, as in a crochet stitch. It often requires a deal of coaxing and good pay to secure one of these highly prized “Coras.”
The women were as devoted to gambling as the men, and made flat trays for this purpose. The dice were eight acorn shells, or half-walnut shells, first daubed over inside with pitch, and then inlaid with little shells which represented money.
I saw a tray and dice purchased most adroitly from an excited gambling party, who were at the time too much intoxicated to know exactly what they were doing. After it had been paid for the owner was implored to sit down and gamble himself, hoping in this way to win more money and get back the board. It was hard to withstand their forcible appeals, but the man ran away, and was obliged to hide all night for fear of assault. Squaws would sometimes bet pieces of flesh from their arms when their money was gone, and many of them have been seen with rows of scars on their arms for this reason. No basket can be finished by an Indian woman until she has ceased to bear children. Then her work is done.
The Japanese are famous basket-makers, but they do not far excel the best work found among these untutored workwomen.
Most curious of all is the fact that a savant connected with the Smithsonian Institute was amaz
ed when examining a “buck,” or man’s plaque, to find it almost exactly like one he had brought from northern India—similar in weaving, size, and shading.
And a lady told me that she could make herself understood by those of a certain tribe in Mexico by speaking to them in Sicilian. Which makes me think of Joel Chandler Harris and his embarrassment, after publishing his stories of “Uncle Remus,” to receive letters from learned men at home and abroad, inquiring how this legend that he had given was the same as one in India, or Egypt, or Siam.
The art of basketry is rapidly deteriorating, and will soon be lost unless Indian children in the reservation are taught something of the old skill by their grandmothers, before the few now living depart for that happy, unmolested hunting-ground they like to believe in, where I do hope they will find a land all their own.
The Mexican drawn-work is seen everywhere for sale, and at moderate prices—so moderate that any one is foolish to waste eyesight in imitating it. Each stitch has a name, and is full of meaning to the patient maker.
One can easily spend a good deal for curios, such as plaques, cups, vases, napkin-rings, plates and toothpicks of orange wood, bark pin-cushions, cat’s-eye pins, etchings of all the missions in India ink, wildflower, fern, and moss work, and, perhaps most popular of all, the pictures on orange wood of the burro, the poppy, and pepper and oranges. Or, if interested in natural history, you can secure a horned toad, a centipede, or a tarantula, alive or dead, and “set up.”
A horned toad is more easy to care for than the average baby alligator of Florida, and as a pet is not more exacting, as it can live six months without eating.
“Why do some women like horrible things for pets?
“Mother Eve set the example, and ever since serpents have been in the front rank of woman’s eccentric loves. Cleopatra was fond of tigers and ferocious beasts, but she turned at last to a snake as the most fitting creature to do her bidding.
“Centuries ago the queens of Egypt made pets of horned toads, and the ugly little reptiles became things of state, and their lives more sacred than the highest ministers to the court. Daughters of the Nile worshipped crocodiles.”
A very intelligent man, who has every reason to speak with authority about the tarantula as found in California, declares that it is not dangerous. He says they live in ground that has not been disturbed by the plough. Their hole in the ground is about three fourths of an inch in diameter and twelve or fourteen inches deep, with only a web over the top. Many tell us that the tarantula has a lid on the top of his house, but this is incorrect, as that belongs to the trap-door spider. It is sold, however, here as a tarantula’s nest. This creature dislikes the winter rains as much as the tourist does, and fills up the entrance of the nest in October and November, not appearing until May. The greater number are found on adobe and clay soil. Tarantulas never come out at night; the male sometimes appears just before sundown, but the female is seldom seen away from home unless disturbed. They seem to have a model family life. Mr. Wakely, who has caught more of these spiders than any living man, does not seem to dread the job in the least. One man goes ahead and places a small red flag at the opening of the nest; the next man pours down a little water, which brings Mr. T–- up to see what is the matter, and then Mr. W–- quietly secures it with a pair of pincers and puts it in a bottle, and has thus succeeded in catching hundreds, but has never had a bite. (This last line reminds me of the amateur angler.) He tells me that there seems to be a general impression that a tarantula will jump into the second-story window of a house, and, springing upon the neck of a young lady sitting there, will kill her instantly. He has never seen one jump three inches. If one leg is broken off nature soon provides another. The Texas variety is believed to be more dangerous. I do not know.
There are rattlesnakes to be seen and heard about the mountains in hot weather.
As to buying precious stones, especially opals, in this part of the country, I think it is wisest to buy opals in the real old Mexico for yourselves, often very cheaply. The prices rise rapidly here. A water opal, however beautiful, has no commercial value. It is but an imprisoned soap-bubble, and is apt to crumble. There are stores where pretty colored stones can be bought, but the majority get cheated as to price.
But we are not paying proper attention to the “panorama.” Many have been led to settle here by taking this picturesque trip; and with plenty of water oranges pay splendidly. So there is substantial wealth, ever on the increase, in these new towns.
By the way, were you ever asked to be a “panorama”? I once had that honor. A lady came to my house one Sunday morning, and explained that her husband was dreadfully depressed over a fall in stocks or something, and she knew I could be “so amusing” if I chose, and wouldn’t I get into her carriage and go with her to amuse said husband, and be a sort of panorama for the poor man? “I don’t want him to be in the panorama,” she said, “nor of the panorama; I want you just to be the panorama by yourself.” I was forced to decline this singular appeal, glad as I should have been to cheer her dumpy spouse.
Why, oh why is it, that if persons have the slightest power of being what is vaguely called “entertaining,” they are expected to be ever on duty at the call of any one who feels a desire for inexpensive diversion?
At one hotel I sat by the side of an odd old man, a retired tobacco merchant of great wealth, who was ready for conversation with all newcomers, and who seemed to feel that I was not doing my full share as an entertainer for the masses. He also had the unusual habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, whether complimentary or otherwise, in frank soliloquy, like that absent-minded Lord Dudley whom Sydney Smith alludes to, as meeting and greeting him with effusive cordiality, and then saying, sotto voce, “I suppose I shall have to ask this man home to dinner.”
But my friend at my elbow had very little of the sotto in his voce. He began in this way:
“Ahem! I hear you can be funny.” No response from person addressed. Then to himself: “I don’t much believe she can do anything—don’t look like it.” To me: “Well, now, if you can be funny, why don’t you?” I could not help laughing then. “Yes, if you can, you ought to go into the parlor every night and show what you can do, and amuse us. It is your duty. Why, I told Quilletts—you know ‘bout Quilletts? awfully funny feller; good company, you see—says I, ‘Quilletts, I like you. Now, if you’ll stay I’ll give you a cottage, rent free, all summer (I’ve got an island home—lots of us fellers on it—great times we have); but you must agree to be funny every night, and keep the ball a-rollin’.’ Now we want you to get up and do something to entertain the guests. We want to be amused—somethin’ that will set us laughin’!”
I replied: “Mr. Brushwood, I understand you are a dealer in tobacco?”
“Yes, mum; and you won’t find finer tobacker anywhere in this world than what’s got my name on it. Here’s a picture of my store. Why, Brushwood’s tobacker is known all over the United States.”
“Yes? Well, when I notice you freely distributing that tobacco, bunches of your choicest brands, papers of the very best for chewing, cigarettes by the dozen, in the parlor evenings, I’ll follow on just behind you, and try to amuse as a condensed circus. I’m not lacking in philanthropy. I only need to be roused by your noble example, sustained by your influence.”
Brushwood looked disgusted, grunted his disapproval, backed his chair out from the table, and as he walked to the door of the dining-room many heard him mutter, “She’s a queer dick; don’t amount to much, anyway; thought so when I first saw her; impudent, too!”
As the farmer remarked when he first encountered a sportsman dude, “What things a feller does meet when he hasn’t got his gun!”
But the train is slowing up, and see, Judge Brown, my old friend of The Anchorage, is looking for us. No! No “Glenwood”; no “Arlington”; no “kerridge”!
CHAPTER IX.
RIVERSIDE.
“Knowest thou the land where the lemon trees bloom, Where the golden ora
nge grows in the deep thickets’ gloom, Where a wind ever soft from the blue heavens blows, And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose?”
Yes, that describes Riverside, and reads like a prophecy. If Pasadena is a big garden with pretty homes scattered all through its shade and flowers, then Riverside is an immense orange grove, having one city-like street, with substantial business blocks and excellent stores, two banks, one in the Evans block, especially fine in all its architecture and arrangements, and the rest is devoted by the land-owners to raising oranges and making them pay. You will see flowers enough to overwhelm a Broadway florist, every sort of cereal, every fruit that grows, in prime condition for the table ten months out of the twelve. Three hundred sunny days are claimed here out of the three hundred and sixty-five. They are once in a while bothered by a frost, but that is “unusual.” Before 1870 this was a dusty desert of decomposed granite. What has caused the change? Scientific irrigation and plenty of it. Or, as Grant Allen puts it, “mud.” He says: “Mud is the most valuable material in the world. It is by mud we live; without it we should die. Mud is filling up the lakes. Mud created Egypt, and mud created Lombardy.”
Yes, one can get rich here by turning dust into mud. It is said to be the richest town “per capita” in all California of the same size, $1100 being the average allowance for each person. This is solemnly vouched for by reliable citizens. And they have no destitute poor—a remarkable record. The city and district are said to enjoy an annual income of $1,500,000 from the fruit alone, and there is a million of unused money in the two banks.
Irrigation is better than rain, for the orange growers can turn on a shower or a stream whenever and wherever needed. It requires courage and faith to go straight into a desert with frowning mountains, big, little, and middle-sized, all about, and not an available drop of water, and say, “I’m going to settle right here and turn this desert into a beautiful home, and start a prosperous, wealthy city. All that this rocky, barren plain needs is water and careful cultivation, and I will give it both.” That was Judge Brown’s decision, and the result shows his wisdom. No one agreed with him; it was declared that colonists could not be induced to try it. But he could not relinquish the idea. He was charmed by the dry, balmy air, so different from Los Angeles. He saw the smooth plain was well adapted for irrigation, and Santa Ana could be made to furnish all the water needed. So that it is really to him we owe the pleasure of seeing these orchards, vineyards, avenues, and homes. Where once the coyote and jack-rabbit had full sway, land now sells at prices from $400 to $3000 per acre. There are no fences—at least, there is but one in all Riverside. You see everywhere fine, well-trimmed cypress hedges with trees occasionally cut in fantastic, elaborate designs. There are many century plants about the grounds; they blossom in this climate after twelve years, and die after the tall homely flower has come to maturity. The roadsides have pretty flowers planted all along, giving a gay look, and the very weeds just now are covered with blossoms. Irrigation is carried on most scientifically, the water coming from a creek and the “cienaga,” which I will explain later. There are several handsome avenues shaded with peppers, and hedges twenty feet high, through which are obtained peeps at enchanting homes; but the celebrated drive which all tourists are expected to take is that to and fro through Magnolia Avenue, twelve miles long. The name now seems illy chosen, as only a few magnolia trees were originally planted at each corner, and these have mostly died, so that the whole effect is more eucalyptical, palmy, and pepperaneous than it is magnolious. People come here “by chance the usual way,” and buy because they see the chance to make money. You are told pretty big stories of successes; the failures are not alluded to.
