A Truthful Woman in Southern California Part 9

A clergyman writing of Santa Barbara County says that twenty-five years ago all their vegetables were imported. Now beans yield a ton to the acre, potatoes two hundred and fifty bushels per acre, and he has seen potatoes that weighed six, seven, and eight and a half pounds--as much as an ordinary baby; beets, seventy-five tons to the acre; carrots, thirty. Mr. Webster once declared in Congress that this State could never raise a bushel of grain. Corn yields fifty bushels to the acre; barley, sixty; wheat, thirty. Others give much higher records: corn, one hundred and thirty bushels; barley, eighty; potatoes, four hundred; forty tons of squashes, four tons of hay, sixty tons of beets.

I have spoken of stock-raising. Dairying is a profitable industry.

Poultry farming a little uncertain. If interested in mining there is much to explore. Just in this county are found gold, silver, copper, asphaltum, bituminous rock, gypsum, quicksilver, natural gas, and petroleum.

And what sort of a climate does one find? Santa Barbara is an all-year-round resort. It has all that one could ask.

"The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea."

It is a perpetual summer--sometimes a cold and rainy June, sometimes a little too warm, sometimes a three days' sand-storm, disagreeable and trying; but it is always June, as we in New England know June. At least it is Juney from 9 A.M. until 4 P.M. Just before sunset the temperature falls. Then when the sun goes rapidly in or down it is like being out at sea. And to a sensitive patient, with nerves all on outside, chilled by the least coolness, it is unpleasantly piercing.

When any one describes Santa Barbara to you as a town

"Where winds are hushed nor dare to breathe aloud, Where skies seem never to have borne a cloud,"

remember that this applies truthfully to "a Santa Barbara day," but _not_ to all days. Surf bathers go in every month of the year. But this does not alter the fact that a person would be disappointed and consider himself deceived if he accepted the general idea of absolute heaven on earth. The inhabitants do not wish such exaggerations and misrepresentations to go forth. California can bear to have the whole truth told, and still be far ahead. Who wants eternal suns.h.i.+ne, eternal monotony?

The temperature during the day varies little. I see that one resident compares it with May in other parts of the country. I think he has never tried to find a picnic day in early May in New England. He says: "Our coldest month is warmer than April at Philadelphia, and our warmest one much cooler than June at same place." They did have one simoon in 1859, when the mercury rose to 133, and stayed there for eight hours. Animals and birds died, trees were blasted and burned, and gardens ruined. But that was most "unusual."

Flannels are worn the year round. Average of rain, seventeen inches.

There are sixty-one mineral and medicinal springs in California that are already famous. Here we can take hot sulphur baths, and drink the nauseous water that is said to cure almost all diseases.

Farming is comparatively easy. But grapevines are smitten by a mysterious disease called "cellular degeneration," and phylloxera; a black scale that injures orange and olive, and a white scale that is worse. Apples are not free from worms; the gopher is sure to go for every root it can find. There was a serpent even in the original Eden.

The historian remarks: "The cloddish, s.h.i.+ftless farmer is perhaps safer in Ma.s.sachusetts." I think of experiences at "Gooseville," and decide not to buy, nor even rent a ranch, nor accept one if offered. "Fly to ills I know not of?" No, thank you!

I'm tired now of agriculture and climate, and will turn to less practical themes. You sympathize. We will stop and begin a new chapter, with a hope of being more interesting.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN GALA DRESS.

"The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing, fast and bright; Both isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent light."

To see Santa Barbara at its best you must go there for the Floral Carnival. Then at high noon, on a mid-April day, all State Street is brilliantly decorated with leaves of the date-palm, pampa plumes, moss combined with tropical foliage, calla-lilies, wildflowers, bamboo, immortelles, branches of pepper trees, evergreens, lemon boughs laden with yellow fruit, and variegated shrubs. Draperies of white and gold, with green or red in contrast, or blue and white, in harmony with red flowers, or floral arches draped with fish-nets bestrewn with pink roses; or yellow alone in draperies combined with the poppy, or gray moss and roses. No one fails to respond to the color summons for the day of days. The meat-markets are tastefully concealed with a leafy screen and callas. The undertaker makes his place as cheerful as possible with evergreens, roses, and red geraniums. The drugstore is gaily trimmed, and above the door see the great golden mortar made of marigolds. The Mexican and Californian colors are often flung out, and flags are flying from many windows. The long broad street is a blaze of glory; the immense audience, seated on tiers of benches, wait patiently, then impatiently, for the expected procession; and as many more people are standing in line, equally eager. Many have baskets or armfuls of flowers, with which to pelt the pa.s.sing acquaintance. There are moments of such intense interest that everything is indelibly and eternally photographed. I see, as I write, the absolutely cloudless sky of perfect blue, the sea a darker shade, equally perfect, the white paved street, the kaleidoscope of color, the fluttering pennants, the faces of the crowd all turned in one direction, and hark! the band is really coming, the beginning of the pageant is just seen, and now sea, sky, flags, crowds are no more regarded, for the long-talked-of parade is here. See advancing the Grand Commander and his showy aids, gay Spanish cavaliers, the horses stepping proudly, realizing the importance of the occasion, the saddles and bridles wound with ribbons or covered with flowers. And next the G.o.ddess of Flowers, in canopy-covered sh.e.l.l, a pretty little Mayflower of a maiden, with a band of maids of honor, each in a dainty sh.e.l.l. The shouts and applause add to the excitement, and flowers are hurled in merry war at the cavaliers, and the G.o.ddess and her attendants. Next comes the George Was.h.i.+ngton coach, modelled after the historic vehicle, occupied by stately dames and courtly gentlemen in colonial array; even the footmen are perfection in the regulation livery of that period. Solemn and imposing this may be, but they get a merciless shower of roses, and one of the prizes. And do look at the haymakers! Oh, that is charming! Country girls and boys on a load of new-mown hay, with broad-brimmed hats, and dresses trimmed with wild-flowers. And now the advance-guard is coming down again; they have just turned at the head of the line, and it is already a little confusing. But the judges! How can they keep cool, or even think, with such a clamor of voices, and guests chattering thoughtlessly to them.

Here comes a big basket on wheels, handle and all covered with moss and roses. Four girls in pink silk trimmed with moss stand within, bearing s.h.i.+elds of pink roses to protect their laughing faces from excess of attention. What a lovely picture! Another basket just behind covered entirely with marguerites; the wheels also are each a marguerite, the white horses with harness covered with yellow ribbon--so dainty, so cool. Is it better than the other? And here is a Roman chariot, a Spanish market-wagon, a phaeton covered with yellow mustard, a hermit in monastic garb; then Robin Hood and his merry men, and Maid Marian in yellow-green habit, Will Scarlet and Friar Tuck in green doublets, yellow facings, bright green felt hats, bows and quivers flower-trimmed, even the tiny arrows winged with blossoms. Now there are equipages three deep to survey instead of one, as they pa.s.s and repa.s.s in bewildering splendor. And do look! Here come the comicalities! "The Old Woman who lived in a Shoe"--a big floral slipper, with a dozen children in pink and gray-green, and the old woman on great poke-bonnet; a j.a.panese jinrikisha; an egg of white flowers, and a little boy hid away so as to peep and put out a downy head as a yellow chicken; a bicycle brigade; equestriennes; an interesting procession of native Californians, with the accoutrements of the Castilian, on horseback. One carriage is banked with marigolds, and the black horses are harnessed in yellow of the exact shade. It is fitly occupied by black-eyed Spanish beauties, with raven hair done up high with gold combs, and black lace costumes with marigolds for tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and takes a well-deserved prize.

Roses, roses, roses, roses! How they fly and fall as the fleeting display is pa.s.sing! Thirty thousand on one carriage. Roses cover the street. And yet the gardens don't seem stripped. Where millions are blooming thousands are not missed. And not roses alone, but every flower of field and garden and conservatory is honored and displayed. Now the contestants are driving up to the grand stand to secure silken banners.

Every one looks a little bit weary in procession and audience. Is it over? I murmur regretfully:

"All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest."

Yes, it is over! Waving banners, rainbow colors, showers of blossoms, rosy faces, mimic battle, fairy scenes, the ideal realized!

This is better than the New Orleans Mardi Gras, so often marred by rain and mud, with mythological ambiguities that few can understand, and difficult to interpret in pa.s.sing tableaux; better than similar display at Nice and Mentone. _This_ I do call "unique" and the only. Let Santa Barbara have this yearly festa for her own. She has fairly won the preeminence.

We at the comparatively frozen and prosaic north can indulge in gay coaching parades at Franconia, Newport, or Lenox, where costumes of gorgeous hues a.s.sist the natural beauty of the flowers. But it is only a coaching parade, at the wind-up of a gay season. We cannot catch the evanescent glamour, the optical enchantment, the fantastic fun, the exquisite art of making long preparation and hard work, careful schemes for effect, appear like airy nonsense for the amus.e.m.e.nt of an idle hour.

We show the machinery. A true carnival can only be a success in a perpetual "summer-land," "within a lovely landscape on a bright and laughing seacoast." Taine said, "Give me the race, the surroundings, and the epoch, and I show you the man." Give me fair women, roses, suns.h.i.+ne, leisure, and high-bred, prancing steeds, and I show you this Santa Barbara Carnival.

But this is only a portion of the entertainment. There is a display of flowers at the Pavilion, where everything can be found that blooms in California, all most artistically arrayed; and more fascinating in the evening, when hundreds of tiny electric lights twinkle everywhere from out the grayish-green moss, and the hall is filled with admiring guests.

There is always a play given one evening by amateur talent, a tournament, and a grand closing ball.

The tournament is exciting, where skilful riders try tilting at rings, trying to take as many rings as possible on lance while galloping by the wires on which these rings are lightly suspended---a difficult accomplishment. Their costumes are elaborate and gay, but never _outre_ or bizarre, and no two alike. Each has his own color, and, like the knights of old, has a fayre ladye among the spectators who is especially interested and anxious for his success.

Next comes the Spanish game of "colgar," picking up ten-dollar gold pieces from the saddle, the horse at full speed. And the gymkhana race ends the games. Those who enter, saddle at the word "go," open an umbrella, and, taking out a cigar, light and smoke it--then see who first rides to the goal.

Last came the real _vaqueros_, and they ride untamed, unbroken horses, after a long and rather painful struggle to mount. They la.s.so mustangs and do wonderful things. But it was too much. I was glad to go and rest.

The Flower Dance at the ball, where human flowers formed intricate figures and dances for our edification and delight, was so attractive that my words are of no avail. Picture twenty-eight young ladies, each dressed to represent a flower--hollyhock, pansy, moss, rose, morning-glory, eucalyptus blossom, pink clover, yellow marguerite, Cherokee rose, pink carnation, forget-me-not, b.u.t.tercup, pink-and-white fuchsia, lily of the valley, wine-colored peony, white iris, daffodil, and so on. They advance with slowly swaying motion, with wreaths uplifted until they reach the stage, where sit the guests of honor.

There they bow low, then lay the garlands at their feet, and retire, forming ingeniously pretty groups and figures, while bees and b.u.t.terflies flit in and out. See the bees pursuing the little pink rosebuds until at last they join hands and dance gaily away, only to be enthusiastically recalled.

Do you ladies want to understand a little in detail about the dresses?

Of course you do. Well, here is the yellow marguerite:

Slender petals of yellow satin falling over a skirt of white silk crepe, a green satin calyx girdle about her waist, and golden petals drooped again from the neck of her low bodice and over her shoulders.

A handsome brunette represented a wine-colored peony in a rich costume of wine-colored velvet and satin. The petals fell to make the skirt, and rose again from a bell sheathing the neck of her low corsage, and the cap on her dark hair was a copy of the flower.

There, you see how it is done. But it requires genius to succeed in such an undertaking. Look at Walter Crane's pictures of human flowers for more suggestions.

Most effective of all was the cachuca, danced by a girl of pure Castilian blood, who was dressed to symbolize the scarlet pa.s.sionflower.

The room was darkened save where she stood, and her steps and poses were full of Spanish fire and feeling, combined with poetic grace.

Yes, it is over, but the pictures remain as freshly colored as if I saw it all but yesterday.

During the Carnival sentiment reigns supreme--that is, if you have engaged rooms far in advance, and the matter of three daily meals is settled--and portly business men become gallant, chivalrous, and even poetic. In testimony I offer two verses sent to a lady visitor with a bunch of roses:

"We had not thought it was for aught He lingered round us, scanning, But to admire our spring attire, The south wind softly fanning.

"But when we knew it was for you Our charms he sought to capture, All round the bower each budding flower Blushed pink with rosy rapture.

"Lovingly,

THE ROSES."

George Eliot once said: "You love the roses--so do I! I wish the sky would rain down roses as they rain from off the shaken bush. Why will it not? Then all the valleys would be pink and white, and soft to tread on.

They would fall as light as feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be like sleeping and yet waking all at once."

She never knew Santa Barbara.

I said the horses feel proud, and their owners tell me how they turn their heads to see their adornment. And well they may, for a true Barbareno loves his horse as does the Arab, and delights in his decoration. Easily first in this matter is Mr. W. D. Thompson, who came to Santa Barbara from Maine more than forty years ago, a nephew of the captain with whom Dana sailed. Mr. Thompson is a progressive man, who appreciates the many improvements achieved and contemplated, but still loves to tell of the good old times when he was roughing it as a pioneer. He has done a most important and valuable work in having a typical Mexican saddle and bridle of the most approved and correct pattern made out of the finest leather and several thousand silver dollars. As his favorite mare stood before me with this magnificent saddle on, and her forelegs tied with a little strap so that she could step daintily but not run, I never saw such a pretty sight of the kind.

This saddle and bridle, worth over $3000, are now on exhibition in Chicago. No more significant or beautiful exhibition of the early argonautic period could be sent from Southern California, and it will surely attract constant and admiring attention. Here is a description from the San Francisco _Argonaut_:

"This saddle and bridle, manufactured of bullion from Mexican dollars, are exquisite works of art. The saddle is of typical Mexican pattern, with a high pommel, well-hollowed seat, and the most elaborate of trappings. The leather is stamped with elegant designs, and the whole thing is a complete, costly, and elaborate equipment, of good taste and artistic design. The saddle is studded over with silver ornaments. The leather facings are set thick with b.u.t.tons and rosettes; the pommel is encased in silver; the corners of the ap.r.o.ns are tipped with silver; the stirrups are faced and edged with silver half an inch thick, elaborately chased and carved. The saddle-tree is hung with silver rings, fore and aft, to answer all the requirements of the vaquero in lacing up his riata. The girth, which pa.s.ses under the horse's belly and cinches the saddle in place, is woven of hair from horses' manes by a native artisan, and is fully eight inches broad, with a ta.s.sel hanging at its middle. The saddle, the bridle, and all its appointments are marvels of beauty. The reins, martingale, and whip are composed of solid silver in woven strands. The headstall is covered with fluted silver, with large engraved silver rosettes at the sides, with decorations of flowers and heads of wheat, with an elaborate nose-piece with silver engraving. The side-pieces are of silver, ma.s.sive and ornate, with a silver chain under the horse's jaw. The bridle, reins, and accessories weigh about twelve pounds, and are worth not less than two hundred and fifty dollars in value of silver coin used in its manufacture."

Everybody up and down the coast knows Dixie Thompson. His talk is full of delightful anecdotes of the early settlers, and he has a droll, dry humor of his own that is refres.h.i.+ng. Mr. Nordhoff, who is an old friend, once wrote to the Harper "Drawer" about his shrewd way of restraining the over-keen traders and laboring men who tried to impose upon him. He heads the pleasant bit of gossip, "Captain Thompson's Club," and says: