CHAPTER IV.

Los Angeles is unique. Where will you find another city like it, so open, so bright, with such handsome apartment houses, designed for light housekeeping, such multitudes of cafeterias? Where will you find such a green square of civic center with people sitting quietly about, enjoying the sunshine, the splashing of the fountain, the tameness of the starlings? These are the happy, not the unhappy, unemployed. They have come from far and near to live simply in light housekeeping apartments, to bask in the sunshine, many of them to enjoy a sunny old age on a modest but comfortable income. The last census, they tell us, shows that 80 per cent of the Los Angeles people are from the State of Iowa. But from all the Middle West they have fled from the cold winters to the warmth of this big city which really seems to be not a city at all, but an immense collection of open parks, bright houses, and handsome streets. Thousands of people are pouring into Los Angeles every year. Great fields around the city have been included within the city limits, fine streets with ornate lamps and copings have been cut through them, handsome stucco and shingle villas have been erected. These are homes of well-to-do people who mean to spend at least part of each year, if not the rest of their lives, in Los Angeles. It is all a puzzle, this phenomenal growth of the city. It is not wholly due to business, for the most prosperous business man in Los Angeles is probably the real estate dealer, who has plotted the fields, added new streets, and sold at ever-increasing prices the villa and home sites. The merchant and the provision dealer do well, but after all, their territory is the city itself. There is no great hinterland with which to deal. It is not due to manufacturing interests, for as yet these have been but little developed. It must be, as a lady said to me, "the sale of the climate," an unfailing stock of sunshine that has made Los Angeles the happy, growing, extremely prosperous city that it is.

One may choose from many hotels one's hostel, or one may live in a beautiful apartment, cook one's own breakfast of bacon and eggs, and sally forth to any one of a dozen cafeterias for luncheon and dinner. We found the Hotel Leighton on West Lake Park eminently satisfactory; a spacious, quiet, well managed establishment with the spaces of the park before it and the cars within three minutes' walk.

From Los Angeles we drove through the San Gabriel Valley, dominated by snow covered Mount San Antonio, to Long Beach. The valley is a panorama of new suburban towns, market gardens, and walnut groves. Long Beach is a mixture of Coney Island, Atlantic City, and a solid, substantial inland town. Its public buildings are very fine, its churches being particularly handsome. Its big Hotel Virginia reminds one of the handsome hotels along the boardwalk at Atlantic City, and its long arcade of amusement halls, cheap jewelry shops, and other booths for seaside trinkets is like Coney Island. This stretch of amusement halls and shops lies along the seashore at a lower level than the city proper, and does not impart its character to the rest of the town. It was at Long Beach that I first heard a night-singing bird, somewhat like the nightingale. The little creature sang gaily all night long in the park opposite our hotel. Long Beach and San Pedro are both sailing points for Santa Catalina Island, twenty-five miles away, whose purple-grey heights can be dimly seen across the water. The trip to Catalina is in rather small boats, and is likely to be somewhat trying; but the trials of the two or three hours of voyage are amply awarded by the Island itself.

Santa Catalina has a curving, sickle-shaped harbor around which cluster the hotels and boarding houses which make the home of the summer guests. This little white village against a background of hilly country, taking on lovely lavender and grey tints at sunset, is not unlike some of the towns on the picturesque coast of Cornwall. Santa Catalina is a paradise for deep-sea fishermen, a lotus eaters' island where one may walk over the hills into the quiet interior or take a boat and dream along the rocks, gazing down for hours at the beauties of the gardens of the sea. I would advise all tourists to take time to visit these swaying groves of kelp and other sea plants in a row boat. One sees them in this way far more intimately and satisfactorily than by a more hurried inspection. In the late afternoon everyone at Catalina gathers at the pier to see the fishermen come in with their spoils. Boat after boat is seen approaching. They round the pier and the big fish are lifted up for all to admire. Then come the weighing and the cleaning of the fish. The seagulls hover near, ready for their share of the spoils, as the entrails of the fish are thrown into the sea. A tame seal swims around from his home on the rocks several miles away in order to have his portion of the feast. At the time of our visit he was in a fit of sulks, as a fisherman had struck him on the head with an oar because he had tried to clamber into a boat in his zeal for his supper. A unique experience at Catalina is an evening ride in a swift motor boat equipped with a powerful searchlight. Faster and faster goes the boat in the darkness, the searchlight swinging from side to side over the wide waters. The flying fish, startled by the sweep of the light upon the water, leap wildly into the air. The air is full of them, and of the sound of their rushing wings. Plump! Here comes one into the boat! and here's another, and another! We shield our faces with our hands, shouting with laughter as the fish fall with a thump into the boat, sometimes on the laps of the passengers. More than one passenger has been struck by a flying fish, and our landlady tells us of a tourist who went out for an evening ride in the motor boat to return with a black eye from the blow of a frightened flying fish. Flying fish is delicious eating, and our catch is divided up among the passengers. We were attracted to this excursion when we first landed at Catalina by a startling advertisement describing the experience as "Thousands of flying fish tangoing through the air."

Catalina Island is a quiet spot, outside its little rim of houses along its curving harbor. The pedestrian may go inland for a number of miles, taking his luncheon with him, and have only the hills and the birds for his company. We had such a walk, and saw a hawk alight and settle himself calmly upon a fencepost, holding in his talons a newly captured snake. The creature was still alive, its body ringed in a rigid hoop in its effort to escape. But the cruel claws held it fast, and its captor was preparing to finish it with his sharp beak. We were told that the dust from Santa Ana Valley, twenty-five miles away, could be seen approaching in a grey cloud across the water on windy days from shoreward. Our landlady deplored such days, when her immaculate house was covered with the dust of the distant mainland. Santa Catalina, a grey green agate in the sunlight, a purple amethyst at twilight, ringed by lovely seas, is well worth a visit.

Returning to Long Beach, we drove on toward San Diego, through the Santa Ana Valley to San Juan Capistrano. As we came through the great valley in which lie Santa Ana, Fullerton, and Anaheim, we passed fruitful groves of lemons and vast fields of beets. We observed an odd optical illusion as we came near Tustin. All the fields before us seemed to be covered with water, and we at first thought that the irrigating streams had been turned on and were flowing through them. But as we reached the fields we found them perfectly dry. Field after field stretched before us apparently swimming in water, and field after field as we came near we found dry and brown under the sun. This occurred more than once in southern California as we were driving along in the sunlight.

At San Juan Capistrano we stopped to see one of the most beautiful Missions in all California. The cloisters of San Juan, the ruins of the very fine old church, the bells in their places above the walls, all are extremely picturesque and beautiful. At San Juan with its quaint little street we found two hotels, both of which had attractions. The Mission Hotel offered us Spanish cooking, attractive to one fond of red pepper and high seasoning. Las Rosas looked like a pleasant country home turned by some enterprising woman into an inn. We chose Las Rosas and had an excellent home dinner there. From San Juan Capistrano we drove on south to Delmar, where we spent the night at the Stratford Inn. This hotel, which sits flower-encircled on its sandy hillside overlooking the blue seas, has every modern appointment and luxury. The settlement does not yet seem to have attracted a large cottage population, but there are some homes of very charming architecture and with beautiful gardens. We walked up the picturesque hills back of the hotel, and came at their summit to the precipitous edge of a great bowl from which we looked down upon a green valley stretching away many miles in extent.

From Delmar the next morning we again drove south with the sea on our right and the hills on our left. The road winds over very hilly country through a growth of rare pines known as the Torrey pines, found only here. From the heights of these hills one sees at a distance a point of land stretching into the sea, with a little town shining on its slopes like a jewel in the sun. It looks, as one approaches it from the north, like a Riviera town. This is the enchanted spot on the southern coast known as La Jolla (pronounced La Hoya), a little town frequented by people who love the Spanish warmth of the Southern sun and the blue of the Southern sea. Here is a beautiful Episcopal school for girls, its stucco buildings planned in Spanish fashion. Here is a charming little church of the same architecture. Here, perched on the rocks, looking out to sea along the coast fringe of the town, are flat-roofed stucco houses with a matchless view of the water. Farther back on the hills overlooking the town, are lovely winter homes, also built in the architecture of Southern countries. La Jolla is one of the loveliest spots on the whole Pacific Coast. Its rocks, its caves, its Southern sea, its sunshine, all combine to make it a delightful place in which to spend a winter.

La Jolla is only fourteen miles from San Diego, and it was an easy drive from there into the bright, clean, shining city of the South. San Diego is at present in a state of transition, the transition from a little city to a big city. She has a matchless harbor, plenty of room in which to grow, and what is becoming a rich surrounding country. She has a perfect situation, with the harbor before her and the hills rising behind her. When the rails connect her with the "back country" she will undoubtedly become a powerful city.

What could be more beautiful than the drive from San Diego out along the point which curves like a great claw into the sea and is known as Point Loma? The road first sweeps along close to the water, passing rows of pretty suburban homes. Then it rises, swings up over the hills on to the high ridge of Point Loma proper, the open sea to the right, the harbor to the left, passing the beautifully kept grounds of the fine property belonging to the School of Theosophy. Beyond, the road still climbs until it comes to the end of the Point, on which stands a little old Spanish lighthouse, now abandoned. High above the sea one looks off to the far away islands. Turning about, one sees the city, white in the sun, the mountains rising in the distance behind it. Running out from the city is a long, narrow strip of land which widens into Coronado Beach, with the red roofs of the hotel and the green stretches of the beautiful little town of Coronado. Just below is the blue water of the great harbor. It is a grand view, and ranks in my opinion with the noble views of Sydney Harbor in Australia and of Auckland harbor in New Zealand.

San Diego, like her sister cities of Los Angeles and San Francisco, is a town frequented by tourists. Many are the hotels and apartment houses, devoted to winter sojourns and light housekeeping, offset by excellent cafeterias. There are plenty of excursions from San Diego, a short one being to the Spanish house in the village of old San Diego, known as the home of Ramona. The old house with its walled garden and its wide porches has been put in order and is now used as a depot for curios and Indian goods. Another delightful trip, somewhat longer, is to Grossmont. Grossmont is, in spite of its name, a little mountain, some fifteen miles back of San Diego. It is an irregular heap of rocks, rising from rather barren surrounding country. Mr. Fletcher of San Diego first saw the possibilities of Grossmont and marked out the road which now runs around the mountain to its summit. Here are the modest houses of an artist and literary colony, among them the cottage of Madame Schumann-Heinck. From the porches of these cottages, perched high upon the bare rocks, one looks down upon the exquisite little El Cajon (The Box) Valley, where grow lemons, oranges, and other fruits in beautiful green luxuriance. El Cajon could once have been bought for a song, but now its fertile acres, under the spell of irrigation, are worth many thousands.

Beyond El Cajon rise the superb mountains of the South in all their rocky grandeur. They take on most wonderful colors; warm clay yellows, rich browns, lavenders, tints of ashes of rose. They are constantly changing as the day advances, and are a world of color. No wonder that singers, poets, and artists love to look upon the glowing greens below and the glowing lavenders afar. The view from Grossmont is extremely poetic and beautiful.

We should have considered our visit to California very incomplete without having seen San Diego, its Southern seas and its fascinating "back country." It is wholly different from Los Angeles, and the charm of the South is over it all. Were I a young business man, seeking to cast in my lot with a growing California city, I should cast it in San Diego.

From San Diego we proceeded through El Cajon Valley to the little town of Julian, nearly 4000 feet high. That was a memorable ride, taking us through green valleys and then up, up through broken hill country and past heavy oak and pine forests and rich mountain pastures. In going over Mussey's Grade I saw, for the first time, growing on the rocky hillsides groups of tall yuccas. I could not be content until I had climbed out of the motor and cut one of the towering stalks, springing from a mass of thick, sword-shaped leaves. Its white scented bells covered the stalk from top to bottom. It was a tree of creamy bloom and perfume. I laid it on top of our luggage, enjoying its perfume from time to time; but the beautiful bells began to droop, and by the time the day's long journey was over the flowers had withered. Afterward, I saw many of these yuccas growing in lonely, rocky places, blooming luxuriantly. They were like tall white candelabra.

On our way to Julian, a few miles from the little town, by mistake we turned left instead of right, and had a long wandering through a great mountain country. The roads were narrow, twilight was coming on, and we found ourselves in a seemingly endless forest. Sometimes from high points we had wonderful sunset glimpses of distant mountains looming above green valleys. Then again we came upon lush meadow patches, wide and lonely in the midst of the hills. Still the road wound on, down through ravines, up over steep hillsides. Not a house was to be seen, only the lonely forest and the deepening darkness. It looked as if we must spend the night in the woods. At last we came out through a rough gate into the main road and reading a sign by the light of a match found that we were a mile from Julian. It was good to reach the tiny village and to find the Robinson House, a very clean and respectable village inn, kept by an old colored soldier and his wife. They gave us an excellent supper and we found a very comfortable bed awaiting us. We had taken a road through the mountain district back of a beautiful summer inn, known as the Pine Hills Inn, and had wandered over the drives planned for the pleasure of summer guests.

We saw the Pine Hills Inn perched upon the hillside, the next morning. It was only a short distance from where we had struck the main road for Julian. We had fully intended to spend a night at this famous little inn, but must leave that for the next time. Julian is famed for its apples, growing nearly 4000 feet high. We saw a charming picture of blossoming apple trees, grown against a dark background of tall mountain pines which flanked the orchard slope. There is a famous view near Julian. Looking down from a break in the hills one sees far, far beyond and below the grey stretches of the desert and the Salton sea.

From Julian we drove on to Warner's Hot Springs, where many people resort for the healing power of the Springs, and where a pleasant little hotel, surrounded by cottages, makes a delightful stopping place for those who wish to enjoy the sunshine and to pierce the defiles of the mountains back of the valley of the Springs. The Springs are on a great ranch which covers thousands of acres and supports hundreds of cattle. To reach them one drives over long stretches of plain, partly rich grass, where cattle feed, partly somewhat barren country.

Leaving the Hot Springs, we drove again across the vast sandy stretches and the rich green plains of the Warner Ranch, coming from there through picturesque and somewhat broken country to the little Pala Mission. Before reaching the Mission one comes along a mountain road cut like a shelf into the hill and very high above the valley. The little town which is the seat of the Mission is reached by a long descent. The most interesting thing about the Mission now is its bells, which are set so that the wall in whose open niches they are hung makes a picturesque framework for them. Leaving the town we came on through a deep and rocky canyon, whose scenery was wild and mountainous. From this we emerged into a broad valley which grew more beautiful as we traveled northward. Wide grain ranches stretched away to the right, walled in by the massive ramparts of Nellie Palomar Mountain. Other ranches stretched to the left, ending in the foothills in rich groves of olive trees. We were traveling through Temecula on our way to Elsinore, a town of hot springs. There we spent a comfortable night at a hotel situated on a little lake. The lake in the evening light with the olive orchards stretching down to its waters from the foothills opposite was very charming. From Elsinore we drove on in the morning through an open canyon, where Matilija poppies grew plentifully, to Corona. Corona is a lovely little town belted by an encircling boulevard, broad and shaded. It lies in a fertile valley whose plains and hill-slopes are covered by thousands of lemon trees, tended with a mother's care. Above the valley rise the mountains on the distant horizon. One can see lemons being gathered, flowers blooming, and new groves being planted in the valley, and then look up to snow-capped peaks beyond. Here lemon orchards are valued at $2,000 and more an acre. When the trees have reached the bearing stage and are in good condition, lemon orchard land is a gold mine. We heard of people who rented their orchards on the basis of $2,000 value per acre, receiving interest on that valuation. We heard also of successful lemon growers who had purchased large acreages of lemon-bearing land at $1,000 per acre and who had within two years after purchase marketed a crop of lemons whose selling price covered the entire amount paid for the orchard two years before.

We visited a big packing house and saw dark eyed Sicilians, alert and prosperous, sorting, cleaning, and packing the lemons. Everything proceeded with swiftness and yet with orderliness. Down the long troughs rolled the lemons, each gravitating through a hole according to its size. Into a bubbling cauldron they were gently railroaded, where brushes from above and from below washed them and pushed them on. With much deftness packers caught a square of tissue paper with the left hand, a lemon with the right hand and wrapped the fruit. The filled box was pushed along a polished runway to the inspector. He deftly and quickly looked the box over, decided whether the packing was close and firm, nailed on a top, and bound the box with supporting iron bands. It was then ready to go into the freight car on the track a few feet away, where experienced men were loading the car with the yellow fruit. We were told that notwithstanding competition with the Sicilian and Italian fruit, California lemons had all the market their owners could wish for. Certainly when one sees the care with which the fruit is grown, the mellow sun under which it matures, and the skillful gathering, cleaning, and packing of the packing houses, one wishes every right of way for California lemons. One lemon grower told us that in the course of the past twenty years he had advanced hundreds of dollars to his Sicilian laborers who had asked his help to bring over their fathers, their brothers, and other relatives. He said that kinsman after kinsman had been brought over and had added himself and his work to the Corona colony, and that their benefactor had never lost a dollar. All the loans had been conscientiously returned in the course of time.

Californians look forward to a great flood of immigration within the next few years, and hope that Europe will send them the men to till their lands and cultivate their rich valleys and hill-slopes. There is plenty of room for them in this splendid empire of a State.