Chapter X: Section 12: , Mr. and Mrs. M. Houston. Brother Houston is S. C. of West (2)

Brothers Wyman, Maxwell, Sheppard, Gilliland, and myself walked down to the washout this evening and came back in the caboose of the work train. It is about three miles from where our train lies to the break in the track that has caused so much labor and anxiety. The greater part of this work is performed by Mexicans, and they have been working day and night, much of the time up to the waist in water, in order to get the break repaired. More of our party came over from El Paso this evening; they are all over now but two or three. Brothers Haas and Smith and Mrs. Smith went over to El Paso to-day to go by regular train to Los Angeles.

When Brother John Reilly came over to the train he brought with him a very much corroded revolver, presented as a souvenir to the Pennsylvania Railroad conductors’ excursion party by Col. Si Ryan. The revolver belonged to George Daley, mining engineer, of Lake

Valley, New Mexico, who was killed by Indians September 9th, 1878. The revolver was found on the alkali plains where Engineer Daley met his death. The alkali had eaten off all the woodwork and corroded with rust the iron. It is an interesting relic and highly valued as a souvenir.

The “boys” have been patrolling the train at night since we have been sidetracked here. I have volunteered to go on second watch to-night, and turned in at eleven o’clock, expecting to be called at 2 A. M. for patrol duty.

MONDAY, MAY 17th.

Awakened at 2.30 this morning by Brother George Dale, and with Brother Sam Horner go on duty to watch and to wait for morning to come. There is nothing else for us to do; all is quiet outside and around the train as we promenade back and forth on the alert for anything of a suspicious nature. The morning is clear and bright and the air cool and refreshing. Brother Kilgore, who sleeps near the roof in the car “Milton,” is doing some vigorous snoring, and Brother Houston, in the rear of the “Orchis,” is talking earnestly in his sleep. We catch an occasional glimpse of a skulking dog or coyote seeking for food amongst the scraps thrown from the train, but no marauder appears to molest us. A heavy 44-caliber six-shooter, presented to the writer just before starting on the trip by Lyttleton Johnson, Esq., of Chadd’s Ford, Pa., has been at the service of our watchmen, and we feel that we are well armed. When not in possession of the watchmen, Baggagemaster George Anderson sleeps with it under his pillow.

The coming of day and the stir of the occupants of the cars relieve us from duty, and we strike out through the mesquite thicket to reconnoitre and obtain a view of our surroundings. Less than 200 yards from the train we come to a deep, wide, irrigating canal, through which the muddy water is rushing in a torrent. We can go no further in this direction and conclude to follow the stream in quest of a bridge. We go but a short distance when the thicket becomes impenetrable, and we retreat, and cutting a cane from the thicket as a memento of our little walk, we return to the train, glad to find that breakfast is ready and to learn that an effort will be made to get us over the break to-day.

Brother Wyman has been closely watching the progress of the repairs, and under the supervision of Master Mechanic H. Small, the work these last two days has made very rapid advancement. The sun is scorching hot and the forenoon is spent by the party sitting in groups in the shadow of the train discussing the various features of the situation, and many are the surmises as to what will be the result of an attempt to cross that sea of water over the repaired and trestled tracks with a train of cars of such weight as ours. We feel that the risk is great, but realize the effort to get us over is to be made, when about 1 P. M. S. P. engine No. 719, in charge of Engineer M. Love, is run in against our train and we are pushed, with six construction cars ahead of us, out on the main track and up toward the flooded district. Conductor J. H. Ludwig has charge of the train, and in him Mrs. Ed. Foster recognizes a cousin whom she had not seen for many years. The recognition is mutual and the meeting a happy one. The knowledge that the conductor is related to and personally known by a member of our party creates a feeling of confidence that almost assures our safe deliverance.

We have now reached high water and our train is being slowly pushed farther and farther into a gurgling, surging, muddy flood until the dreaded break is reached, with miles of water all around us. The repaired track, propped and trestled, settles and sinks out of sight when it receives the weight of the cars, that toss and roll and creak in a manner which, if it does not frighten us, fills us with much concern, for we are afraid we will lose our train in the flood. A sudden stop, caused by the bursting of an air-brake hose on the engine, fills us with alarm. “We are lost,” murmured Mrs. Maxwell, and her face wore a frightened look. “Not yet,” replied Brother Schuler, and his assurance gave us comfort; but the few minutes delay caused by the accident was almost fatal, for our heavy dining car had settled until its wheels were covered with water and the repairsmen thought a rail had broken beneath its weight. In water almost up to their necks the men made an examination of the track under the car and found it intact.

The signal was given to move ahead, and as slowly the sunken car comes into position, hearts become lighter and faces grow brighter; the dreadful suspense is over, and we give more attention to our surroundings. We see many fine residences surrounded by water, and large fields of grain inundated and ruined. We are two hours coming through the four miles of high water. Slowly and carefully we are safely brought through, and all concerned are entitled to the highest praise for the able and judicious manner in which the train was handled.

Arriving at the Southern Pacific station in El Paso about three o’clock, and finding we have an hour before leaving, many avail themselves of the opportunity of taking a parting look at this interesting city and bidding adieu to the many kind friends who have done so much toward making our forced stay a pleasant and happy one. Four of our party, under the escort of Brother Sloane, have taken a trip over to Juarez, and much uneasiness and concern is felt for them, as the time is up for our train to go and they have not returned. The engine whistle is sounded long and loud to call them in, but they do not come. “They have gone over there to make some purchases,” asserts Brother Sheppard, “and I fear have been arrested for trying to evade the customs laws.” “No fear of that,” replies Captain Purcell, who has charge of our train, “you may rest assured that no member of your party will be molested by the customs officers. The courtesy and freedom of the cities of El Paso and Juarez have been extended to you, and the badge you wear is a guarantee of your safety.” “Yes,” adds Col. Si Ryan, who is on hand to see us off, “Diaz wouldn’t allow any of you Pennsylvanians pinched if you should carry off the whole State of Chihuahua, for his Honor thinks Pennsylvania the greatest and best State of the Union, with the exception, of course, of Texas,” and there is a proud, faraway look in the Colonel’s eye as he contemplates the enormous area and the illimitable possibilities of the great Lone Star State. Notwithstanding the assurance of Captain Purcell and Colonel Ryan, Brother Post is very much concerned, for Miss Ella is with the absent party, and he has gone to look for them. Brothers Moore and Dougherty have

taken advantage of the delay and are off looking for souvenirs. Those who are waiting for the return of the absent ones are growing very impatient, and when at last they are seen coming, impatience and uneasiness give way to feelings of relief and gladness, and Brother Sloane is forgiven once more on the plea “that it was a misunderstanding of the time that caused the trouble,” and gave it as his opinion that “El Paso time is one of the most confusing problems that ever worried a tourist.”

The deep-toned engine bell peals out the warning that the train is about to start; “All aboard” is shouted, the last hand shake is given, and at 5.45 (2.45 Pacific) P. M., just five days, six hours, and forty-five minutes late, our train rolled out of the Southern Pacific Station and across the Rio Grande, leaving behind the pretty and interesting city of El Paso and our many new-found friends, whose liberality and kindness will ever remain a pleasant and happy memory with us. Our train is drawn by S. P. engine No. 1395, in charge of Engineer Joseph Bird and fired by J. V. Paul, who accompany us to Tucson, 312 miles. Conductor T. H. Purcell and Brakeman E. G. Shaub go with us to Yuma, 563 miles.

We are in New Mexico, having entered it when we crossed the Rio Grande River. The country is wild and barren and the railroad very crooked. Engineer Bird, in his eagerness to make up the lost time, is running at a speed which Manager Wyman thinks is not consistent with safety. The cars rock and roll in an alarming manner, and several dishes have been broken in the dining car, which calls forth a protest from our friend McDonald of that most cherished department. Brother Wyman immediately requests Conductor Purcell to instruct the engineer to reduce speed, which is done, much to the relief and comfort of all on board. Brother Joseph Flory, of St. Louis Division No. 3, State Railroad and Warehouse Commissioner, of Jefferson City, Mo., and Harry Steere, Esq., traveling passenger agent of the Southern Pacific Railroad, are our guests from El Paso to Los Angeles, and a much appreciated acquisition to our party.

They have a fund of useful and interesting information on hand pertaining to the country through which we are passing, which they impart to us in a pleasant and entertaining manner. “What place is this, Mr. Steere?” we inquire as a pretty little town bursts upon our vision. “This is Deeming,” replies Mr. Steere, “and it is quite an important place. We are now 88 miles from El Paso, and this is the first town we have seen. A few years ago it was as barren and uninhabitable here as any of the desolate country through which we have passed, but good water was discovered a few feet below the surface of the ground, and now the place is noted for its many wells of fine water, which is shipped for hundreds of miles and is also used for irrigating purposes, for nothing will grow throughout this region unless it is artificially watered. The thrifty young shade trees, the shrubbery and patches of verdant vegetation you noticed as we passed through Deeming is convincing evidence that all this region needs, to make it one of the most fertile and productive countries in the world, is plenty of water.”

For 60 miles further we pass through this region of desert plateaus known as the plains of Deeming. The dust is almost suffocating and sifts through every crack and crevice, the double, almost air-tight, windows of the Pullmans being insufficiently close to keep it out. At the little station of Lordsburg, 60 miles from Deeming, Engineer Bird stops to water his iron horse. “This supply of water,” remarked Mr. Steere, “is brought here in pipes from a large spring or lake in yonder mountain, five miles away.”

Looking in the direction indicated, we can see through the gathering dusk of evening the dark outlines of a mountain in the distance. “’Tis a pity,” continued Mr. Steere, “that you were not enabled to pass through this section during daylight, for there are some things I should like you to see. We are drawing near the Arizona line, and the scenery is becoming more broken and varied. Those mountains which you can dimly discern on your right are composed of cliffs and crags of reddish rock of a peculiar and interesting formation. On the left the great San Simon Valley stretches away to the south for a distance of 75 or 80 miles, and is the grazing ground for many thousands of cattle. One company alone, the San Simon Cattle Company, it is said, has a herd of nearly 100,000 head.” “What do they feed on, Mr. Steere?” I asked, for visions of the dust-environed plains of Deeming were still floating in my mind. “This great valley,” answered Mr. Steere, “through the northern boundary of which we are now passing, is not nearly so dry as the more elevated country through which we have passed. There are occasionally short periods of wet weather which produces pasture very rapidly, the pasture consisting chiefly of what is known through here as gama grass, which grows very fast and luxuriant and possesses great feeding qualities. The strangest but most valuable feature of this peculiar vegetation is that it retains all its sweetness and nutrition after it is dead and brown, and stock feed upon it with as much avidity in a dry and sapless condition as they do when they find it in the green and juicy stage of life and growth.

“Away to the south, bounding this immense valley, is a wild and rocky range of the Chiricahua Mountains, said to be from time immemorial the rendezvous of renegades and desperadoes, one of the most noted being an outlaw Apache Indian called the ‘Arizona Kid,’ whose depredations and crimes were a terror to all the surrounding country. And were it only light,” continued Mr. Steere, “I would show you one of the most notable landmarks on the Southern Pacific Road. Away over to the south there, clearly outlined against the sky, is a mountain formation that plainly resembles the up-turned profile of a human face. It is called ‘Cochise’s Head,’ bearing a strong likeness, it is said, to Cochise, the most noted chieftain of the Apache tribe.”

We have now reached what is known as “Territorial Line,” about midway between the little stations of Stein’s Pass and San Simon. Conductor Purcell kindly stops the train at this point, giving those who wish the opportunity and privilege of gathering some mementoes of the occasion and locality. I look at my watch; it is 11.20 P. M. “Philadelphia” time, 8.20 P. M. “Territorial Line” time; it is pretty dark for the business on hand, but the post that marks the dividing line is easily found, and in a very short time is so badly cut and splintered by the relic hunters that it looks as though it had been struck by lightning. Several standing astride the designated and imaginary dividing line picked pebbles from New Mexico and Arizona at the same time. In five minutes we are on our way again, and in a short time thereafter the snores of the tourists heard above the rumble of the train proclaim that “the weary are at rest.”

TUESDAY, MAY 18th.

Got up this morning about the usual time and found that we had passed Tucson in the early part of the morning and had changed engines at that point. We have now S. P. engine No. 9030, Engineer J. W. Bunce and Fireman J. Weir, who run us to Yuma, a distance of 251 miles. It cannot always be day, nor we cannot always be awake, so when night comes and we sleep we miss much that is novel and interesting. “You have missed much since entering Arizona that is well worth seeing,” I hear Mr. Steere remark to several of the party with whom he is conversing as I enter the smoker. “During the night we have passed through the most wonderful cactus country in the world, many of the plants rising to the height of thirty and forty feet; but you will see similar plants should you pass through the Antelope Valley, Cal., in daytime after leaving Los Angeles. You also missed seeing the town of Benson, which is one of the important places on this line, where we connect with the New Mexico and Arizona and the Arizona and Southwestern Railroads; and it is really too bad that you did not get at least a passing look at Tucson, for there is only one Tucson in the world. It is one of the oldest and queerest places in the United States, and a place with a history. The population is estimated to be about 8000, and nearly all of the residences are of adobe construction. Claims are made that it was first settled by the Spanish in 1560.” A call to breakfast interrupted Mr. Steere’s interesting talk as we all make a break for the dining car.

All the morning we have been descending the Gila River Valley, and the picturesque, complex scenery of mountain, plain, and valley has been much enjoyed by all. As we approach Yuma, situated on the Colorado River, in the extreme southwestern corner of Arizona, we can scarcely realize that in the 251 miles we have come since leaving Tucson we have dropped from an altitude of 2390 feet to that of 140 feet, the elevation of Yuma, but such is the case, according to the figures given on the time table of the Southern Pacific Railroad which I hold in my hand, and which Captain Purcell and Mr. Steere both declare is correct beyond a shadow of doubt, adding “that the Southern Pacific Railroad Company was never known to publish a falsehood or make a mistake.”

We arrive at Yuma 12.30 P. M. Eastern (9.30 A. M. Pacific), and make a stop of fifteen minutes. The station is a low-built, commodious building, surrounded on three sides by extensive grounds in which flowers are blooming in profusion. A number of bouquets were gathered by the ladies. Several native Indians are about the station having for sale trinkets and toys of their own manufacture. It is a strange and novel sight to behold these old remnants of an almost extinct race and tribe dressed in the scant and grotesque garb of their nativity, with their faces and the exposed

parts of their limbs and bodies painted and tattooed with bright and varied colors, increasing tenfold their natural ugliness, which showing to its best advantage, unassisted by art, is far above par. Yuma Bill, the biggest, oldest, and ugliest of the lot, seems to claim the most attention, and as I see him coming down the station platform and entering the waiting-room door, bareheaded and barefooted, with a bright-striped blanket about him, I think of Mark Twain’s story of his visit to the camp of Sitting Bull. “The old chief saw me coming,” says Mark, “and he came to meet me. I had pictured him in my mind as an old warrior covered with glory; I found him clothed with the nobility of his race, assisted by an old horse blanket, one corner of which hid his approach and the other corner covered his retreat.” Similar characters are Yuma Bill and his pals, and if ever “Mark” encounters them he will be strongly reminded of his notable interview with the famous Sitting Bull.

We all buy trinkets of Bill, for we never expect to see him again and we don’t want to forget him. We are told that he is a good old Indian, but was not always so. Years ago, when there were battles to be won, Bill made a record as a fighter. He will fight no more; there are only a few of him left; and Uncle Sam has given him and his comrades a refuge in a little reservation across the river where they hope to live and die in quietness and peace.

A short distance back of the station can be seen the territorial prison or penitentiary, on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River. We thought it was a fort until told that it was a prison. Our train is about to start, and we find a large car or tank of water attached on the front end next the engine and a freight caboose on the rear. We find that a freight crew has charge of us, that the tank of water will be needed to supply the engine, as there is a run of 120 miles through a country devoid of water, and that the crew will need the caboose when they leave us, for they expect to take back from Indio a train of freight. We have S. P. engine No. 1609, with Engineer W. Hayes at the throttle, fired by George McIntyre, Conductor H. J. Williams, Brakemen H. J. Schulte and R. M. Armour. As our train moves slowly off across the bridge that spans the Colorado we take a last look at Yuma and its picturesque surroundings, and in two minutes we are in California and crossing the Colorado Desert.

We are disappointed. We thought California a land of beauty, fertility, and flowers--a desert waste is all we see, bald mountains and barren plains on every side. Our course is upward for about 25 miles, until an elevation of 400 feet is reached, and then we begin to descend, and when we pass the little station of Flowing Well, 60 miles west of Yuma, we are only five feet above the level of the sea. Ten miles farther we stop at Volcano Springs and are 225 feet below the sea level. After leaving Flowing Well our attention was called by Mr. Steere to what was apparently a large lake of clear, sparkling water ahead, and to the left of our train, about half a mile away. We were running toward it but got no closer to it. It remained there, the same distance from us, a bright, sparkling, rippling body of water; not one on the train but what would have said, “It is water.” Mr. Steere says, “No; it is not water;

it is a delusion, a mirage caused by the glare of the sun on the shining salt crust of this alkali desert. There is not much doubt,” continued Mr. Steere, “but what ages upon ages ago all this immense basin was the bottom of a great sea. You can see upon the sides of these barren bluffs and upon those walls of rock the mark of the water line that for thousands of years perhaps have withstood the ravages and test of time. This little station is called Volcano Springs because of the number of springs in this locality that are apparently of volcanic origin. They are not in operation at the present time, but certain seasons of the year they are very active and spout up mud and water to a height of from 10 to 25 feet.”

A thermometer hanging in the doorway of the station, in the shade, registers 101 degrees, and it is not unusual, we are told, for it to reach 125. It is actually too hot in the sun to stand still; it almost takes one’s breath away. We feel relieved when our train starts and we are in motion once more. We create a breeze, a sea breeze, as it were, wafted to us o’er the mummified saliniferous remains of an ancient sea 3000 years a corpse. But the “mirage” still is there, a wonderful delusion, a monstrous deception, a gigantic “Will o’ the wisp,” whose alluring promises have led hundreds of men and animals a fruitless chase that ended in horrid death.

Sixty-five miles ahead of us we can plainly see San Jacinto Mountain, towering 11,500 feet in the air, with its summit covered with ice and snow that glistens in the noonday sun. Twenty-four miles from Volcano Springs we pass Salton, noted for its great salt industry. This is the lowest point on the line of the Southern Pacific Railroad, being 263 feet below sea level. About three miles to the left of the railroad we see the great white salt marsh or lake, containing such a vast deposit of this useful substance that the supply is thought to be inexhaustible. Steam plows are used for gathering the salt, and the works erected here have a capacity of nearly 1000 tons per day.

Twenty-five miles from Salton we reach Indio, where a short stop is made to change engines. Indio is a veritable oasis in the desert. After miles and miles of desert dust and glaring sand, it is very refreshing to see again trees and grass and flowers. We are still 20 feet below the level of the sea, but good water has been found here, and plenty of it applied to the soil has worked wonders. Whatever is planted grows with rapidity and in profusion, and with an abundance of water Indio can look forward to fast increasing beauty and prosperity. It has been discovered that the climate here is very beneficial to consumptives, and Indio has already become noted as a resort for those afflicted with pulmonary trouble, and it is claimed some very remarkable cures have been effected.

We leave Indio at 4.15 P. M. Eastern (1.15 P. M. Pacific), with S. P. engine No. 1397. Engineer Ward Heins, Fireman J. A. Shanehan; Conductor Williams and his brakemen will continue on to Los Angeles with us, 130 miles further.

Soon after leaving Indio we ascend a grade of 120 feet to the mile and pass along the base of San Jacinto Mountain, with its summit frowning down upon us from a height of 11,500 feet. The snow can now be plainly seen upon its highest peaks, and rivulets and cataracts can be seen in places dashing and leaping down its seamed and rugged sides.

At Rimlon we get Engineer Eli Steavens and Fireman M. Anderson with engine No. 1963 to assist us up a steep grade to Beaumont, a distance of 35 miles.

At Palm Springs a short stop was made to take aboard some guests who came to meet us from Los Angeles. They were Mr. G. L. Mead, Mr. H. Kearney, and Mr. J. E. White. Mr. Mead is a merchant of Los Angeles who heard of our coming and came to meet us to bid us welcome to the “Paradise of America,” and to emphasize his expressions of good feelings, presented the tourists with a case of very fine California wine. Mr. Mead could have done nothing more in accord with the feelings of the party. No wine ever tasted better, no wine ever did more good; it is a medicine our systems crave after 150 miles of the scorching, glaring, waterless Colorado Desert; a right thing in the right place; it is appreciated far more than Mr. Mead will ever know. Mr. Kearney is a promoter of stage lines and is about to establish a route between Palm Springs and Virginia Dale, a distance of 71 miles. He is an interesting gentleman to converse with, being perfectly familiar with all the surrounding country. Mr. White is a transfer agent doing business in Los Angeles, and is on hand to render aid to any of the party who may need his services.

We arrive at Beaumont and have reached the summit of the grade. In the 50 miles we have come since leaving Indio, we have made an ascent of 5280 feet. Our helper engine No. 1397 has left us; and we commence our descent of the western slope of the San Bernardino Range. Mr. J. Jacobs, a civil engineer in the employ of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company, was invited to get aboard at Beaumont and accompany us to Los Angeles. We find him a very agreeable guest, giving us a great deal of entertaining information.

We have passed from desert wastes into a rich agricultural district; farmers are engaged in harvesting hundreds of acres of barley, which in this region is cut while in a green state and cured for hay. We pass many large fruit orchards of different varieties, while away in the distance on every hand the mountains rear their snow-clad peaks to the clouds. It is a grand and wonderful transformation from the scenes through which we have lately passed, and needs to be seen to be appreciated.

“This section of country through which we are now passing,” observed Mr. Jacobs, “is the famous Redlands district, a country that has shown far greater development and been subject to more rapid improvements in the same number of years than any other known section of its size in the world. Ten years ago it was almost barren, and known only as a vast sheep range; to-day, owing to a thorough system of irrigation, there are nearly 30,000 acres of reclaimed land that bloom and blossom and bear fruit with all the fertility, the beauty, and abundance of a tropical garden.”

We have now entered the orange district, and large groves are seen on every hand, golden with the luscious fruit. At Pomona a halt of sufficient length is made to allow several baskets of oranges to be put on the train, which are distributed amongst the party and found to be delicious and refreshing. We are unable to ascertain who are the thoughtful donors, but all the

same they have the most sincere thanks of the entire party for their kindness and generosity.

For 25 miles we pass through a fairyland of blooming loveliness, and at 8.45 P. M. Eastern (5.45 Pacific) our train rolls into the station in Los Angeles, five days, five hours, and forty-five minutes late. On an adjacent track a train is loading, and we learn it is the New York Central excursion about ready to start for home. We exchange greetings and cards with many of them before their train pulls out, bound for its journey through the heat and dust of desert and plain, for they return by the route we came, and we know what is in store for them.

We begin to realize what we have missed by thus coming in at the eleventh hour. We find we were saved from a watery grave in the raging Rio Grande only to discover that we are here just in time to be too late to participate in the “good times” all the other visitors have had. The twenty-sixth session of the Grand Division of the “Order of Railway Conductors” that we had expected to attend is about ready to adjourn; the pleasure trips planned for the entertainment of members of the order to all the surrounding points of interest have been taken, and we weren’t “in it.” ’Tis rather a discouraging outlook, but with the true Yankee spirit of self-reliance we quickly determine to make the best of it, trusting our future to luck and Providence.

Brothers Houston, Haefner, and myself start for Music Hall, No. 234 South Spring Street, where the Convention is in session, and arrive five minutes before its adjournment. We hear Brother Grand Chief Conductor E. E. Clark make his closing speech. As the members of the Convention commence to pour out of the hall into the street the greater part of our folks arrive on the scene, and for more than an hour an impromptu meeting is held on the sidewalk and on the street in front of the building, where old friends are greeted and new friends are made; everybody wants to exchange cards with everybody else; all are good-natured, good-humored, and happy, and “perpetual friendship” seems to be the ruling spirit of the hour. The crowd gradually disperses and becomes scattered over the city, members of our party mingling with the rest, seeing the sights and looking for souvenirs.

Brother Ristein received a telegram that had been lying in the Los Angeles office four days awaiting his arrival, telling him of the serious illness of one of his children far away in his Delmar home, and he is at the office now, anxiously awaiting a reply to a message of inquiry sent as to the present condition of the child. Brother Ristein fears the worst, and we all share his anxiety. Promptly the answer flashes back, “The child is better and thought to be out of danger.” The words make light a heavy heart, and we are all glad for Brother Ristein’s sake.

Our train occupies a track in the Arcade Station train shed for our convenience, and by ten o’clock there are very few but what have turned in. A few of the “boys” are still out, of course, but it is a hopeless task to try and “keep tab” on them. We cannot do it. These nocturnal outings of theirs will have to be noted down as “unwritten history.” How much of it there will be we cannot tell. There has been considerable already, of which we might mention one night at Fort

Worth, testing the efficacy of police protection while attempting to follow a “blind trail”; four or five nights in El Paso chasing the fleeting phantom of merry luck to the musical whirl of the wheel of fortune. They are all right, these “boys” of ours, and they know a good thing when they see it.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 19th.

We are all up bright and early this morning, and after breakfast parties are formed to take in the sights. A number of us have decided to take a tally-ho ride, and Brother Wyman has gone to procure the outfit. In a short time he returns with the information that “the wagon will soon be here.” It is not long until a fine roomy coach, drawn by six white horses, reins up in front of the group, and we clamber in. There is just room enough. We count the party and find there are fourteen, including the driver. The team is from the Panorama Stables and driven by “Mac,” the veteran stager and coachman, who knows every crook and turn in all the highways and byways and drives and trails throughout Southern California. “Mac” is a character; we try to draw him out, but he won’t talk about himself, won’t even tell you his name, only that it is “Mac.” He will tell you about everything else, and he is thoroughly posted. He takes us through the principal streets of this most wonderful city, rightly named “The town of the Queen of Angels.”

Los Angeles lies amongst the foothills of the Sierra Madre Mountains, with an average elevation of 300 feet above sea level, only 15 miles from the coast, with an active, bustling business population of about 75,000 inhabitants. The beauty and magnificence of this tropical profusion through which we are passing is something we have heard of, but never saw before, and we find we are helpless when we attempt to describe it. In fancy and in dreams we have pictured “The Land of Sunshine and Flowers,” but now, brought face to face with this marvelous reality, the beautiful pictures of dreams and fancy pale into crudeness and insignificance. Through avenues shaded on either side by rows of palms, eucalyptus, and pepper trees, past rose-embowered cottages and lawns filled with tropical plants, surrounded by hedges of roses and calla lilies, we continue on our way out through the suburbs into the rural districts, through the avenues of vast orange groves, the trees loaded with luscious golden fruit, through beautiful Pasadena, and on until “Mac” draws up at the famous ostrich farm, where we alight and go in to look around.

We spend about half an hour looking at the birds and two and a half dollars in the purchase of feathers. Loading up, we start on our way again, bound for “Lucky Baldwin’s” ranch, “the largest individual tract of land,” says “Mac,” “in Southern California. It comprises 50,000 acres, nearly all under a condition of cultivation and improvement.” Here it is our pleasure to behold the largest and most wonderful orange grove in the world. For miles we see nothing but orange trees and oranges; the trees are loaded and the ground is covered with the yellow fruit. We feast upon the beauty and grandeur of this unusual sight, with lots of oranges thrown in. It is needless to state that we ate all we could and loaded up the hack.

A few miles further on we arrive at the Bonita Hotel, belonging to the ranch kept by Mrs. Warner, where the horses are taken from the coach and fed and the party takes lunch. Large lawns surround the buildings filled with many varieties of flowers, and we are given the privilege of plucking all we want, and when we leave each lady carries a large bouquet in her hand and each gentleman a smaller one in his buttonhole.

Starting on our way again, the horses refreshed with rest and food, we speed along lengthy drives and avenues, shaded by large Lombardy poplar and eucalyptus trees, for about two miles, when we pass through a large gateway over which is an arch in the form of an immense horse shoe, and enter the stable grounds where Baldwin’s famous blooded horses are kept. We are kindly received by the stableman, shown through the stalls, where a number of the celebrated equines are seen. Brother Layfield evinces such a surprising knowledge of horseflesh and shows so much interest in the history of the different animals as related by the stableman that he is presented by that courteous gentleman with a mule’s shoe as a souvenir of the visit. Brother Kilgore is also interested in the horses and would like to have a shoe; a search for one is unsuccessful, and so long did Brother Kilgore remain in the stable looking for the much-desired relic that he came near being left.

Leaving the stable grounds, we drive a mile further to the palatial residence and magnificent grounds of the renowned ruler of these domains. Mr. Baldwin is not at home at the present time, but the place is in charge of trusted employes. Leaving the coach, we walk through the spacious grounds surrounding the princely mansion. Paradise can hardly be more beautiful and grand--the largest, the sweetest, the reddest roses that ever delighted the sense of sight or smell, the grandest trees, the most beautiful shrubbery bearing flowers of every kind and color. Bordered with blooming lilies are lakes of water, clear as crystal, on the surface of which graceful swans are swimming and in whose depth gold and silver fish dart and dive. Fine fountains and statuary intersperse the lawn, adding to its richness and beauty. Mounted above a pedestal in a conspicuous spot we notice an old bell. It is possessed of no beauty, and we wonder what it is for. We inquire of an old man working near by, “Uncle, what is the old rusty bell for?” “That old bell,” answered the old gentleman, removing his hat with a low bow as he turns toward the object in question, “is the most valued thing you see. It is a relic that money cannot buy. Mr. Baldwin prizes it very highly, and we people all adore it.” As the old servant utters the last words he makes another low courtesy. We begin to think he is a little daft and are about to move on, when, straightening up and with outstretched arm he points toward the old bell a bony, trembling finger, and continues slowly and with emphasis, “That old bell came from the chimes tower of the San Gabriel Mission. That is why we prize it; that is why we love it.” We thought at first the old fellow bowed to us; we know now that he bowed to the old bell out of respect and reverence, for whatever is connected or associated with those old missions is looked upon as something almost sacred by many of the people here, especially those of the Roman faith.

A whistle from “Mac” informs us we must be going,

and climbing into the ’bus the horses start off on a brisk trot and we soon leave “Lucky Baldwin’s” ranch behind and enter “Sunny Slope” vineyard, owned by L. J. Rose. This immense vineyard contains 1500 acres and is traversed by beautiful avenues which divide this vast acreage of grapevines into great squares.

We are soon across this interesting tract and enter the grounds of the vintage plant of the San Gabriel Wine Company. We were very courteously treated and shown through the large establishment, the capacity of which is 1,500,000 gallons of wine per year. Upon leaving we pass through their vineyard, containing 1000 acres, which is near the vintage plant.

As we approach the old San Gabriel Mission and “Mac” reins up his steeds in front of the low, quaint building, I instinctively glance up at the ancient belfry and find that two of the niches or arches where bells once had swung are vacant. “Lucky Baldwin” has one of the bells; I wonder who has the other. At this moment another tally-ho drives up and stops, and we find it is a coaching party of our own people. We all alight and enter the historic and sacred edifice. Those who are of the faith render their acknowledgment with quiet, humble reverence; we who are not stand silently by in an attitude of mute veneration. San Gabriel stands fourth in the line of the twenty-one missions established in California from July 16th, 1769, to April 25th, 1820, the date of its establishment being September 8th, 1771.

The party we encountered consists of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, Mr. and Mrs. Reilly, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews, Mr. Reagan, Mr. McCarty, Mr. Waddington, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Williams, and Mr. Suter. They occupy one of Hoag’s White Livery tally-ho coaches, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Horner in a buggy. Our party consists of Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and Mrs. Kilgore, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Mrs. McKernan, Mr. and Miss Barrett, Mr. Crispen, Mrs. Shaw and myself.

As we bowl along the level drive toward the city, after leaving the old Mission, our conversation turns upon the pleasures of the day and of the interesting and beautiful things we have seen. We are all well pleased with our day’s outing, especially the Colonel, who is in a high good humor, for had he not obtained what no one else could get, a substantial memento of his visit to the famous Baldwin ranch? “I am going to have this shoe decorated with ribbon and hung up in my parlor,” asserts the Colonel, as he searches in the bottom of the coach for his prize. “I guess not,” exclaims Mrs. Shaw, as she gives him a dig in the ribs with her elbow, “that’s my shoe you’ve got hold of.” “But where’s my horse shoe? Has any one got it? Has any one seen my horse shoe?” excitedly inquires the Colonel, as he makes another dive into the bottom of the coach. “I think it flew away,” quietly remarks Mrs. Wyman, as she draws her feet up and out of the way. “Who ever saw a shoe fly,” snaps the Colonel, as he continues rummaging in the bottom of the vehicle. “I have,” answers Manager Wyman, removing his hat, exposing a pate as devoid of hair and as bald as a door knob, from which he brushes an imaginary fly. “I saw a horse fly, but didn’t notice if he had shoes on,” observes Mrs. McKernan, keeping her eye on the Colonel, who is growing desperate in his failure to find

his treasure. But it was gone; it had escaped from the bottom of the coach in some way, and we all sympathize with Brother Layfield in his bereavement, now that we find he has actually lost his valued souvenir.

We enter the city through East Side Park, which is a most beautiful and delightful drive. We bid goodbye to “Mac” and his spanking team and hurry to our dining car, where we arrive just in time for one of McDonald’s dandy dinners, which we heartily enjoy after such a busy day. We find a number of our party had taken trips similar to our own, and over nearly the same route; others had ascended Mt. Lowe, been away above the clouds; some had taken a run down to Santa Monica and sported in the surf of the Pacific; some to Santa Catalina Island, the alleged “Garden of Eden” of the Pacific coast. All express themselves as having had an exceedingly good time and are laying plans for the morrow. There are many places we would like to visit and many things we would like to see, but our time is too limited “to take it all in,” for we are to leave here to-morrow at 2.00 P. M. We have friends in San Diego we had intended to visit and there are fish at Catalina Island we had expected to catch; both friends and fish will have to charge their disappointment or pleasure, as the case may be, to the turbid waters of the Rio Grande.

Dinner being over, the most of our people take a walk up town and enjoy a promenade through the brilliantly-lighted streets, admiring the handsomely-furnished stores, with goods and wares arranged and exposed in so tempting a manner that many trinkets and knicknacks are purchased for souvenirs. Returning to the train at an early hour and hearing such a favorable account of the trip to Mt. Lowe from some who were there to-day, we conclude to join a party that is going in the morning and “take it in.” One by one and two by two our people keep dropping in like unto the oft-mentioned fowls that “come home to roost,” until only a few of the “boys,” as usual, are left outside the fold, and to them I need again ascribe “_unwritten history_.” As I leave the smoker to retire to my berth in the “Marco” I see our faithful George H. (Alfalfa) Anderson making up his bed, under the pillow of which he carefully places our “artillery,” and I feel we are as safe as though surrounded by a cordon of Gatling guns.

THURSDAY, MAY 20th.

Arose early this morning and found the weather not very favorable for our contemplated trip to Mt. Lowe, being cloudy and somewhat foggy, but we concluded to go, so after breakfast the party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Miss Barrett, Mr. Kilgore, Mr. Sloane, Mr. Haas, Mr. Crispen, Mr. Denniston, two guests--Miss R. Stradling and Mr. A. L. Bailey--George H. Alfalfa Anderson, and myself, under the escort of Brother Ed. Butcher, of Los Angeles Division No. 111, who is a passenger conductor on the Los Angeles Terminal Road, boarded a car at 10.00 A. M. Eastern (7.00 A. M. Pacific) on the Pasadena and Los Angeles Electric Railway, conducted by W. A. Brown, and started on a never-to-be-forgotten trip to Mt. Lowe.

Out through the suburbs of Los Angeles, with its

beautiful rose-embowered cottages and palatial residences and lawns of palms and tropical shrubbery, on through miles of country districts, rich with groves of golden fruit, through eden--Pasadena to Altadena, where we change cars for another electric road that carries us for about three miles over hill and dale, through ravines and across frightful-looking chasms, but always tending upward, until at an elevation of 2200 feet Rubio Cañon is reached and we are at the foot of the great cable incline, claimed to be the most wonderful cable road in the world, extending from Rubio Pavilion to Echo Mountain, a distance of 3000 feet. It makes a direct ascent of 1350 feet. Looking up at the wonderful construction it seems to almost pierce the sky; its summit is enshrouded in a veil of fog that hides it from our view.

“I don’t quite like the looks of that,” ventures Brother Kilgore, looking over his glasses with a scrutinizing glance, as his eyes follow the great incline up to where it is lost in the fog. “I guess it’s all right; I don’t think we’ll find it as terrifying as it looks to be; anyhow, the proof of the pudding is in eating it, and I for one am going up,” answers Brother Sloane. “Charlie, if you go I will go,” responds his bosom friend and chum, Brother Haas. “There is no danger I will not share with you, and perhaps we can see some mountain goats.”

“Or capture a deer,” adds Brother Denniston, who is keeping pretty close to Miss Stradling, for that young lady looks as though she needs sympathy and companionship in this trying ordeal.

“Do you think it’s safe, Charlie?” quietly inquires Mrs. Wyman of her husband as we start to ascend to the landing where we board the car. “Yes, perfectly safe,” replies Manager Wyman. “Human skill and ingenuity can make it no safer. They claim they never had an accident since the road has been in operation. The cable by which these cars are drawn has been tested to stand a strain of 100 tons, and the cars when loaded do not weigh five tons, so there is no danger at all.” “If I thought there was the least danger I wouldn’t go up,” utters Brother Layfield, “but I know there isn’t a bit.” Mrs. Layfield makes no comment, but clings nervously to the Colonel’s arm. The rest of the party follow without any apparent trepidation with the exception of “Alfalfa,” who looks a trifle pale.

We are all comfortably seated in the “White Chariot” car, which is constructed without canopy or covering, with seats arranged in amphitheatre style, one above the other, facing the foot of the incline, an excellent arrangement for affording an unobstructed view.

The signal is given, the machinery is set in motion, and quietly and smoothly we start on our trip toward the sky.

“Those mountain peaks you see just beyond Rubio Cañon are called the ‘Rubio Amphitheatre,’” explains the guide who accompanied the car. “You will notice that as we ascend those mountains seem to rise one after another and follow us.” We did notice them; we were looking right at them and couldn’t help it. It was an optical illusion that was rather startling. We thought at first that the mountains would overtake us, but they didn’t. “This is ‘Granite Gorge,’” continues the guide, as we enter a great cut that rears its granite walls on

either side of us and lose sight of the mountains that are chasing us. “The workmen on this road were eight months in hewing this passage through these rocks, and before a tie or rail was laid they had to clamber to these rugged heights and carry their implements with them, and much of the material used in the construction of the road, such as water, cement, and lumber, had to be carried on the backs of burros and on the shoulders of men. This bridge that we are now crossing is called the MacPherson Trestle, and there is no other bridge like it in the world. It is 200 feet long and 100 feet higher at one end than the other. If it were not for the clouds you could obtain a good scenic view from here.” Clouds! We had not thought of it before, so interested were we in the talk of our guide, but we notice now that the sun is shining, and looking up we see no vestige of a cloud in the bright, blue sky above.

Looking again, beneath and beyond us, such a sight meets our gaze as our eyes had never rested on before. A vast white sea of billowy vapor overhangs the great San Gabriel Valley and hides it from our view. This alone is worth the trip to see--an immense heaving sea of clouds, an ocean of fleecy vapor billows that surge and roll and toss as though seeking for a shore of sand and rock upon which to spend their restless force. Halting at the summit of the great cable incline, we find we have arrived at the Echo Mountain House, where we change cars, taking an electric road called the Alpine Division of the Mt. Lowe Railway, which extends from Echo Mountain to Mt. Lowe Springs, where “Ye Alpine Tavern” is located.