Chapter XI: Santa Barbara

My brother's boyhood friend, Mr. Merwin, speaking of his visits at Cornwall later, says: "When honors came in troops, I found Edward was the same kindly unostentatious man, the truly loyal friend. Later, after some correspondence with me, he came to Southern California, where under those sunny skies and semi-tropical scenes his love of Nature found great delight.

"While visiting at Pasadena, as we drove about that beautiful city,
he emphasized what he had often told me, that one of the great joys
of his life was that which came to him from the hundreds of letters
from all parts of the country, and many written by people in humble
circumstances, thanking him most heartily for the cheer and
encouragement he had given them through his books."

After a short stay with his friend in Pasadena Edward went with his wife and children to Santa Barbara. There they occupied a pleasantly situated cottage, owned by a New England lady and her daughter, under whose excellent care they enjoyed the rest and freedom from restraint that cannot be found in crowded hotels.

In a letter written to the Detroit _Tribune_ my brother gives his experience of a California winter.

"My impression is that January first was the warmest day of the
month. Certainly on no other days was I so conscious of the sun's
heat, yet the air was so deliciously cool and fresh in the early
morning. There had been a heavy dew, and grass, weed, hedge, and
flower were gemmed in the brilliant sunshine.

"Walking up town with my mail at about ten in the morning, I found
myself perspiring as upon a hot day in August, but there was no
sense of oppression. One was exhilarated rather than wilted. After
reaching our cottage piazza and the shelter of the climbing roses
and honeysuckle, the change was decidedly marked. This is said to
be the peculiarity the year round, even in midsummer. One has only
to step out of the sun's rays in order to be cool, and the dead,
sultry heat which sometimes induces one to yearn for the depths of
a cave is unknown.

"As I sat there in the shade, letting the paper fall from my hand
in the deeper interest excited by my immediate surroundings, I
could scarcely realize that we were in the depths of winter.

"The air was fragrant from blooming flowers; finches and Audubon's
warblers were full of song in the pepper trees, while humming birds
were almost as plentiful as bumble-bees in June.

"It was evident that the day was being celebrated in the manner
characteristic of the place. One might fancy that half the
population were on horseback. In twos and fours they clattered
along the adjacent streets, while from more distant thoroughfares,
until the sounds were like faint echoes, came also the sounds of
horses' feet rapidly striking the hard adobe of the roadways. In
addition to those who gave the impression of life and movement in
the suburbs of the town, large equestrian parties had started for
mountain passes and distant canyons, taking with them hearty lunches
in which the strawberries were a leading feature. As long as the
sun was well above the horizon delicate girls, almost in summer
costume, could sit in the shade of the live-oaks in safety, but
when the sun declines to a certain point, between four and five in
winter, there is a sudden chill in the air, and those who do not
protect themselves by wraps or overcoats are likely to be punished
with as severe colds as they would take in a Boston east wind.

"It has often seemed to me warmer at eight o'clock in the evening
than at four in the afternoon.

"We resolved to have our holiday outing as well as the others, and
after dinner were bowling out on the road to Montecito, the
favorite suburb of Santa Barbara. The fields by the roadside were
as bare and brown as ours in winter when not covered with snow, but
drought, not frost, was the cause. The 'rainy season' was well
advanced, but there had been no rain in quantity sufficient to
awaken nature from her sleep. In this climate vegetation is always
a question of moisture.

"When reaching the villa region of Montecito, blossoming gardens
and green lawns illustrated this truth. After a visit to the
beautiful grounds and fine residence of Mr. A. L. Anderson, so well
remembered by thousands as the captain of the favorite Hudson River
steamboat the Mary Powell, we drove on to one of the largest orange
groves on this part of the coast. Mr. Johnson, one of the
proprietors, received us most hospitably, and led the way into a
grove that sloped toward the mountains. The ground was scrupulously
free from weeds, mellow as an ash heap, and had evidently been made
very fertile. Mr. Johnson told me that he fed the trees constantly
and liberally, and this course is in accordance with nature and
with reason, for the orange tree never rests. While the fruit is
ripening the tree is blossoming for a new crop. Always growing and
producing, it requires a constant supply of plant food, and one of
the causes of the deep green and vigorous aspect of the grove and
its fruitfulness consisted undoubtedly in the richness at the
roots.

"Another and leading cause was in abundant supply of water.

"From a canyon near by a mountain stream flowed down skirting the
grove. This stream was tapped by an iron pipe at a point
sufficiently high to furnish by gravity all the water required, and
it was distributed by a simple yet ingenious contrivance.

"The utmost vigilance is exercised against insect pests and the
mutilation of the roots by gophers. The results of all this
intelligent care and cultivation were seen in the surprising beauty
and fruitfulness of the trees, which were laden with from one to
two thousand golden-hued oranges, in addition to the green ones not
to be distinguished from the leaves at a distance. Even so early in
the season there were a sufficient number of blossoms to fill the
air with fragrance.

"The brook babbled with a summer-like sound, and the illusion of
summer was increased by the song of birds, the flutter of
butterflies, and the warm sunshine, rendering vivid the gold and
glossy green of the groves. Rising near and reflecting down the
needed heat were the rocky and precipitous slopes of the Santa Ynez
Mountains. Turning on one's heel, the silver sheen of the Pacific
Ocean, gemmed with islands, stretched away as far as the eye could
reach. Could this be January? On our way home I felt that it might
be, for as the sun sank low wraps and overcoats, which could not
have been endured an hour before, seemed scarcely adequate
protection against the sudden chill.

"Throughout the month there were many days like the first,
summer--like sunshine followed by chilly evenings and cool nights.
No rain fell and clouds were rarely seen. The temperature gradually
became lower even at midday, and occasionally in the early morning
there was a white frost on the boards and sidewalks. The roses grew
more scattering in the bushes. Nature did not absolutely stop and
rest, but she went slow over the cold divide of the year. I know
not how it was with the old residents, but a sense of winter
haunted me, especially on the quiet, star-lit nights. I sometimes
questioned whether this sense resulted from the impressions of a
lifetime, made at this season, or was due to climatic influences.
To both, I fancy. When a baker's horse and wagon, furnished with
bells, jingled by, it was a sleigh until memory asserted itself.

"When abroad, even in the bright, warm sunshine, something in the
appearance of the sky, the feel of the atmosphere, and the aspect
of the bare, brown fields suggested winter and created a momentary
astonishment at the flowers which continued to bloom in the watered
gardens.

"I was continually aware of a conscious effort to account for what
I saw and to readjust my ideas to a new order of things.

"The season seemed an anomaly, for it was neither summer nor
winter, fall nor spring, in accordance with one's previous
impressions. The visage of nature had an odd and peculiar aspect.
It was as if the face of an old friend had assumed an expression
never seen before. There was no ambiguity or uncertainty upon one
point, however, and that was the need of winter clothing by day and
of blankets at night, roses and sunshine notwithstanding, and those
proposing to come here should always remember the chill of shade
and apartments without fires.

"Although the mercury never marks extreme cold, the sense of cold
is often felt keenly unless adequate provision is made against it.
All that is needed, however, is a little prudence, for one never
has to guard against sudden and violent changes.

"As in the East, so here, winter is especially dedicated to social
pleasures. Much of the gayety centres at the two fine hotels, the
Arlington and the San Marcos, both under the efficient management
of one proprietor, Mr. Cowles. The townspeople are much indebted to
his genial courtesy, and the spacious parlours are often lined with
the parents and chaperons of young ladies from the city of Santa
Barbara as well as with his guests, while the entertainments have
the best characteristics of a dancing party at a private dwelling.
It is very fortunate for the young people that there are such
unexceptional places in which to meet, for this town is peculiarly
a city of cottages, few being large enough for assemblies of any
considerable numbers.

"There is consequently much social life in a quiet, informal way.

"One of the remarkable characteristics of the town is the large
percentage of what is justly termed good society--a society not
resting its claims on wealth or an ancestry long known and
recognised in the vicinity, but on the much better qualities of
refinement, intelligence, and cultivation. Search for health and a
genial climate have brought people here from all parts of the
Union, and not a few, after long residence abroad, prefer this
Pacific slope to any of the world-renowned regions on the
Mediterranean. One therefore soon discovers a marked absence of
provincialism and is led to expect that the quiet lady or gentleman
to whom he is introduced has seen far more of the world than
himself. The small, unpretentious cottage facing the grassy
sidewalk may be inhabited by a mechanic, or it may be the
dwelling-place of people cosmopolitan in their culture and
experience. Strangers are not wholly dependent on each other for
society, as is so often true of health resorts, but find a resident
population both hospitable and acquainted with life in its most
varied aspects. Much of the abundant leisure possessed by many is
spent in reading, and to this pleasure a large, well-selected free
library contributes greatly."

Edward had the good fortune to arrive at Santa Barbara in time to witness its unique centennial celebration, of which he gives a detailed description.

"SANTA BARBARA, Cal., January 7, 1887.

"Few more interesting events ever took place in the quaint and
quiet town of Santa Barbara than its centennial, and nothing
resembling it in any true sense can ever occur again. The Indian
element of this region receded and disappeared before the Spanish,
and the latter population is fast becoming a minority among the
still paler faces arriving from the East. The time perhaps is not
distant when Santa Barbara may be known as a New England city. Even
in its centennial the great effort made to recall the past and the
old resulted in a large degree from the interest taken by new
comers in vanishing phases of life. The success of the enterprise
was due largely to the organization, young in age and composed
chiefly of youthful members, entitled the 'Go Ahead Club.' The name
itself suggests the East, and the opposite of the Spanish
disposition to permit each day to be a repetition of a former day,
yet the club had the tact and friendly feeling to co-operate with
the best Spanish element, and to bring about a festival week which
interested all classes of people.

"For days even a stranger was impressed by a slight bustle of
preparation. When riding up from the steamer we saw, in the dim
starlight, that a great arch spanned Main Street. Observation in
the bright sunshine of the morrow proved this arch to be a wooden
structure and a fine imitation of the front of the old mission with
its quaint towers. Busy workmen were draping the edifice with some
variety of aromatic evergreen and with palm leaves, and it still
remains as a suggestion to new comers of what they missed in not
arriving earlier.

"The opening ceremonies of the week naturally centered at the
Mission Church, and on Sunday the religious phase of the festival
culminated. Even before we were through breakfast groups were seen
pressing from town. Later there were the sounds of rapid wheels and
the echoing tramp of horses. We soon joined the increasing throng
wending its way up the slopes which lift the Mission above the town
and place it against the grand mountain background. Spanish colors,
red and yellow, hung from tower to tower, while American flags
floated from the belfry arches. Within the long, narrow interior of
the church the sunshine contended with innumerable candles
flickering on the altar, at the shrines, and from the chandeliers.
The softly blended light revealed the beautiful decorations drawn
from the abundant flora and plant life of the region.

"The elaborate service began, the fragrance of roses was lost in
that of the incense, the rustle of dresses and tread of incoming
feet in the mellow tones of the chanting priest and the responses
of the choir. Every seat and all standing room was occupied, rich
and poor sharing alike according to the earliness of their arrival.
Next to a dark-visaged Spanish laborer might be seen the delicate
bloom of a New England girl's features. Beautiful lace mantillas
were worn in several instances. In looking at them one sighed as he
thought of the various monstrosities termed bonnets which disfigure
modern women. The clergy were in their most gorgeous robes, strong
contrasts in tone and color on every side, but above all was a
sense of the past touching the present in many and unexpected ways;
and this effect was enhanced by a sermon in English, giving an
account of the founding of the Mission. Late one afternoon, on a
subsequent day, I found the door of the church open and, venturing
in, saw the western sun shining through the high narrow windows,
lighting up shrines and images with the mellowest light and
throwing others into the deepest shadow.

"No one was visible, yet in the silence and desertion of the place
one felt more like worship than when, a part of the throng, he
witnessed the ceremonials of the preceding Sunday.

"Later still, returning from a ramble in Mission Canyon, I peeped
into the old church once more. Twilight had deepened into dusk--all
was dark within, except the faintest glimmer of a taper at the
altar, where it was evident that some of the Franciscans were
engaged in their devotions. As I crept noiselessly away the bells
chimed out from the belfry. In the upper gallery of the long
corridor stretching from the right of the chapel there was an
immediate opening of doors and a shuffling of feet.

"Evidently the bells had summoned to some new duty,--attendance in
the refectory at that hour, I trust,--and I could have cordially
joined the venerable fathers then, however simple their diet.

"On Monday the festival passed into its secular aspect. The morning
was deemed most unfavorable in this climate, where a cloud, even in
winter, is far more rare than roses. The sky was overcast with what
the Spaniards call a 'high fog.' The sun soon proved, however, to
be the victor, for early in the day the leaden pall was shot
through and through with light. Not only from the most distant and
well-to-do ranches, but from all the small adobe houses and huts
that skirt the mountains, the people were on the way to town in the
early hours. They appeared on the streets in almost every
description of vehicle imaginable, and not a few looked as if they
had trudged from a long distance. The majority, both of men and
women, had apparently ridden in on their broncho horses, the hardy
and often vicious native breed of the region. The townspeople had
prepared a brilliant welcome, for the whole length of State Street
was decorated with flags and streamers of many and varied devices,
the Spanish and American colors blending most amicably. There was
bustle and movement, life and color, with an increasing concourse
throughout the whole length of the thoroughfare. To a stranger's
eye, men in various costumes were riding aimlessly and often
furiously to and fro, but as noon approached affairs began to
culminate in the blocks above the Arlington Hotel. Here the
procession was forming, and it proved to be the chief event of the
week. Nature was now assisting to make the occasion all that could
be desired. The clouds that had threatened now merely saved the day
from an unredeemed glare. After the usual delay in processions, it
began to pass the balcony of the Arlington Hotel, where scores of
guests were assembled to witness the pageant. First came the grand
marshal in a genuine Mexican suit and mantle. Following him were
his aides, dressed in rich, various, and characteristic Spanish
costumes, some of which were remarkable for their beauty and others
were picturesque in the extreme. One young gentleman was habited in
blue, lavishly laced with silver. It was the cadet uniform of the
Spanish army, and had belonged to his grandfather. Another, clad in
cream white satin and gold lace, with crimson sash and other
accessories, made a striking figure.

"Indeed, each of the aides graced the occasion in handsome costumes
which were, as I was told, no capricious and fancy affairs, but a
reproduction of the gala habiliments of the past. They sat their
fine horses in Mexican saddles which were in themselves marvels of
old and curious workmanship. A like cavalcade in Broadway would
draw out the town.

"Next in order came the Spanish division, men and women on
horseback, and nearly fifty strong. It was evident that all
heirlooms in dress had been rummaged from their receptacles and
made to fit the descendants of remote ancestors. It would be hard
to say how many different ages and how many provinces in Spain and
Mexico were represented.

"To modern eyes the picturesque had the ascendency over other
qualities, but all welcomed the man carrying a guitar. At any rate,
this division passed all too quickly, singing an ancient Spanish
song. Close upon them were a band of soldiers clad in suits of
antiquated buff jerkins, armed in old Mexican style with long pikes
and muskets that may have been formidable once. It is doubtful
whether a band so representative of the old Spanish element will
ever appear on the streets of an American town again. Years hence
such an attempt will be more of a masquerade than a reproduction.
In this instance the genuine Spaniards were too numerous and their
traditions too recent and real to permit impositions.

"Many Spaniards and native Californians not in costume now
followed, and then came an old-fashioned ox-cart, dating back a
century and drawn by oxen yoked by the horns. Within the cart was a
wooden plow that had turned some of the earliest furrows in this
region, and would have been equally satisfactory at the time of
Abraham. In this age of invention one wonders that people remained
satisfied so long with such primitive methods and implements.
Appropriately following the cart, the like of which had been used
by their ancestors, came the shrunken band of Mission Indians, the
two foremost of them carrying a portrait, draped in Spanish colors,
of Padre Junupero Serra.

"The good father passed away centuries ago, and the Indians he
sought to civilize are also nearly extinct, but the principles
which actuated him have redeemed his name from forgetfulness and
will crown it with increasing honor.

"The half-dozen Indians were chanting some wild song of their own
when the fine band from San Luis Obispo struck up and the wail-like
echo of the past was lost. Then came another significant and
diminishing company, the Grand Army of the Republic. On every
public occasion the ranks are thinner and the hair of the veterans
grayer. They, too, will soon leave but a name, but it will not be
forgotten.

"Driving away sad, if not gloomy thoughts, comes now a vision of
beauty and youth; the joy of to-day and the rich promise of the
future--an indefinite number of young girls who, in their
two-wheeled village carts, or 'tubs,' as the English term them,
drew forth rapturous applause. Well they might, for they were in
harmony with the loveliness of the June-like day. Their little
carts had been transformed into floral bowers. The flowers and
greenery so festooned the horses that they were half-hidden, while
wheels within wheels of smilax, roses, geraniums, daisies, and
other blossoms revolved in unison with the outer circumferences.
Each little cart had its own distinctive character, and some had
been decorated with rare taste and originality. Not a few of the
girls carried parasols constructed entirely of roses, or of
geraniums, passion flowers, orange blossoms, etc. Greenhouses had
not been stripped for them, nor, indeed, the open gardens from
which they had been taken. Truly, no such visible and delightful
proof could have been given to our Northern eyes that we had come
to the land of flowers. Gardens, orange trees golden with fruit,
formed the background for this charming part of the procession,
while beyond and above all rose the grand Santa Ynez Mountains,
softening their rugged outlines with half-veiling mists.

"Burlesque followed close upon beauty in the form of an old farm
cart laden with the coarser vegetables and driven by two young men
in the garb of ancient females. The trades' procession came next,
and spoke well for the business of the city, but our eyes soon
dwelt lovingly on over a hundred school children, who made, by
their unrestrained laughter, the sweetest music of the day, while
two little girls riding on one much-bedecked donkey caused ripples
of merriment as they passed.

"A cavalcade of carriages and of ladies and gentlemen on horseback
seemed about to close the procession, when there appeared one of
the most interesting features yet seen--a train of pack mules, not
merely illustrating the former method of transportation, but that
employed to-day by the owner of the train. I hastened to the
director, whose dress indicated a rude mountaineer, and expected a
half intelligible reply from a Spaniard. The accent of his first
word led me to scan his delicate Anglo-Saxon features. I eventually
learned that he was a New Yorker, a member of one of its best-known
families, and not a native of a little-known wilderness.

"Nevertheless he is a mountaineer. Dressed for a Fifth Avenue
company one would not suspect it, his form is so slight and
complexion so fair. Dudes would not be abashed at his presence, yet
they would expire under one day of his experiences.

"Only by a mule train, led over a scarcely practicable trail, can
he reach his distant ranch, that is forty-five miles back in the
heart of the mountains. Here, with another young man, a kindred
spirit, he cares for an increasing herd of cattle, and if necessary
is ready to protect it from wild animals. The grazing grounds are
far within a region about as wild as it ever has been. How about
the young men who whine when they can find nothing to do?

"The interest of the two closing days of the festival centered at
the race course and at the pavilion. The chief attractions at the
former place were to be seen on Tuesday, and they were of a mixed
character. We were treated to what would seem to be a rather rare
phenomenon in Santa Barbara--a genuine Indian summer day of the
warmest type, as we know it at the East. A haze partly obscured the
Santa Ynez Mountains, softened the outlines of the foothills and
blended the ocean with the sky. The air was soft and balmy in the
extreme, but one soon detected a slight chill in the shade. All
sorts of vehicles, from stages of unwieldy height, open barouches,
farmers' wagons of all descriptions, top buggies, down to the
numerous little two-wheeled carts, rapidly converged toward the
judges' stand. As on all gala occasions here, however, the number
on horseback was very large, the ladies sitting their horses with
perfect ease and grace. Not a few, like myself, were content to
trudge to the rendezvous on foot. The grand stand was soon crowded,
and the vast, restless concourse stretched far to the right and
left on either side of the race track. The horsemanship of the
Spaniards could only be surpassed by the fine action of their
steeds, and all lovers of this noblest of animals must have been
delighted. In the effort to show how wild cattle were lassoed,
thrown, and branded there appeared to be too much needless cruelty,
and when a miserable little bull was tormented into savageness, and
the semblance of a bull-fight took place, scores of people turned
away in disgust.

"The finest equestrianism could not redeem the scene from
brutality. The victims were the wretched bull, a fine innocent
horse badly gored, and the people who could not endure to see
animals suffer needlessly. So also in the afternoon great skill was
undoubtedly manifested in lassoing the feet of the wild broncho
horses, and in the process of subduing them, yet one pitied the
poor creatures too greatly for enjoyment and soon turned away. The
helpless beasts were checked in full career, often thrown upon
their heads, turning a complete somersault. One animal, I was told,
broke its neck in the operation, and so escaped further suffering.
Such scenes, no doubt, illustrated much that was common in the life
of the early settlers, but happily it is a past phase, and will
scarcely be reproduced again in this region.

"It was interesting to observe the many types of people in festival
costume, the Indian in his blanket, the Spaniard wearing the broad
sombrero, and the belle from New York reflecting the latest mode.
There was movement, light, color, vivacity, and excitement.

"Every moment or two the eye caught glimpses of swift, spirited
horses and their graceful riders, and yet one's glance was often
lured from it all to the grand, mist-veiled mountains beyond. Many
of the scenes and objects at the pavilion were very interesting to
our foreign eyes and ears. Here Spanish and American life met and
mingled in a far more agreeable way. Several ladies had taken
charge of the large building, erected for horticultural purposes,
and by the aid of greenery, flowers, flags, and a blending of
Spanish and American colors, had transformed the spacious interior
into a decorated hall well fitted for a festival. In the centre of
the hall rose a flower stand suggesting Moorish architecture, its
arches making fitting frames for the young girls within. One might
buy flowers, but his eye lingered rather on the fair flower-girls
in their charming costumes. Among the booths was one in which some
Spanish ladies had kindly permitted to be exhibited some of their
ancient treasures--velvet mantles, embroidered shawls, etc. Even to
masculine eyes they were marvellously beautiful, rich, and
intricate in their designs. The ladies stood before them with
clasped hands and expressed themselves in exclamation points. The
chief attraction, however, was the stage, on which were tableaux
and, above all, the genuine Spanish fandango. One of the dances was
a waltz, with an intricate figure which you felt might go on
forever, and that you could look on a good part of the time. At
first it struck one as merely simple, graceful, and very slow, and
guided by monotonous music; but while you looked and listened a
fascination grew upon you hard to account for. The oft-repeated
strain began to repeat itself in your mind; you felt rather than
saw how it controlled the leisurely gliding figures--for there is
no hopping in the Spanish dances--until at last, in fancy, you were
moving with them in perfect time and step. In brief, the dance had
the effect of a strain of music which, when first heard, is not at
all striking, yet is soon running in your head as if it had a spell
not easily broken. On the programme the dance was entitled 'Contra
Danza.' Later a Spaniard who has a wide local reputation, I
believe, appeared in what was termed 'Son-jarabe.' He certainly
left nothing to be desired in his performance after his fashion,
but the grace of the lady who accompanied was inimitable. From my
somewhat distant point of view she appeared to be dressed in a
simple black gown and wore no ornaments. She needed none. No
bespangled dancer I ever saw so enchained my eyes. One would almost
think that an orange, placed upon her head, would not fall off, and
yet a more utter absence of stiffness in movement was never
witnessed. She seemed ever approaching, yet ever receding from, her
companion; a moment near, then far away, gliding to one side or the
other, as if impossible to be reached in her coquetry of elusive
grace. Each separate movement was called out in Spanish, and in a
varied, half-musical accent not easily described.

"At the closing centennial ball like dances were repeated, the
participants wearing Spanish costumes. Here we had a nearer and
more distinct view of the fandango. We again saw the 'Contra
Danza,' and another, even more intricate, that was as odd as it was
full of grace and unexpected action. If 'La Jota' is an old dance,
it should certainly take the place of many that have little to
redeem them from commonplace, if not worse.

"Son-jarabe was again repeated to the pleasure of all, and
especially of the Spaniards, who, in conformance with an old
custom, expressed their satisfaction by raining silver down upon
the floor from the gallery. There was the same weird intoning by
the master of ceremonies, calling off the different measures; the
same constantly recurring strains of music that haunted one long
afterward, and the same slow yet singularly graceful movement of
the dancers. All were in Spanish costume, although many American
young men and maidens were also participants, yet had been taught
so well by their Spanish friends that they were scarcely to be
distinguished from them. The Spanish dances that I saw did not
strike me as at all voluptuous, and no one appeared who was not
dressed in accordance with the strictest ideas of decorum. The
whole pageant passed away with the ball, and nothing remains to
remind us of the centennial but the green arch spanning State
Street. The old Mission stands out gray and silent, except that its
bells occasionally chime out for reasons unknown to me."

Writing again, in April, my brother describes the change wrought by the first heavy rainfall of the season.

"One of the drawbacks to Santa Barbara is the dust, and it is a
disagreeable accompaniment of a dry climate which must be accepted.
Towards the end of January there were occasionally high, gusty
winds which reminded one of March experiences at home. At times the
dust rose in clouds and obscured the city, and to my taste the
wildest snowstorm would be preferable to these chilling, stifling
tempests. They were not frequent or long continued, however, and
the old inhabitants said they presaged rain, the great bounty for
which the whole State was longing.

"A rainless winter is a terrible misfortune, and when February
finds the ground hard and dry there is deep and natural anxiety.

"In one dry season, years ago, forty thousand head of cattle
perished. With present means of communication this probably would
not happen again, but a check would be given to budding prosperity
which would take several fruitful years to overcome. There were
scores of people hesitating whether to buy or build who would
decide favorably if the usual rainfall occurred. When, therefore,
on the 5th the first storm of the season set in, rejoicing and
congratulations were general. Seldom before have I so realized what
a heavenly bounty rain is. The whole population were hoping,
waiting, longing, and one would be callous indeed not to
sympathize. For that matter, the interests of temporary visitors
were also deeply involved, as may be illustrated by the pleasure I
had in watching from my study window the bare, brown foothills
become greener daily. With intervals, designed, it would seem, to
give the parched earth time to take in the precious moisture, the
rains continued for about ten days. At last there was a steady
down-pour for nearly twenty-four hours, and then dawned a morning
that for brightness, clearness, and beauty left nothing to be
imagined. The birds were fairly ecstatic in their rejoicings and
nature seemed to be tripping forth like a young girl to her work.
It may be that she will have to perfect most of the products of the
earth without another drop of rain, and she will prove equal to the
task.

"A fruitful year in this section does not depend on seasonable
storms and showers, as with us, but upon the number of inches of
the winter rainfall, the soil retaining sufficient moisture to
carry the crops through in safety. Many tourists came in the height
of the storm and some had a hard time of it. The hotels were
crowded; and not a few, miserably seasick, were driven from house
to house in pouring rain searching for rooms. Except on State
Street the highways of the city are little more than country roads,
the bottom of which, as in Virginia, seems to have fallen out. One
stage load was spilled into the mud and no doubt carried away
sinister memories of "sunny Santa Barbara." The weather, which was
the salvation of the country, was well anathematized by transient
visitors, and one lady was overheard to remark that she had seen
the first of the place and hoped that she had seen the last. Thus
judgments and opinions are formed. Those who remained and saw the
exquisite phases of spring rapidly developing under the vivid
sunshine would be in no hurry to see the last of Santa Barbara, and
a more perfect summer morning has rarely been seen than dawned on
the last day of the month."