A Truthful Woman in Southern California | Page 8

too invalidish often go out for long drives, never forgetting the lunch-baskets. One day we try the Alpine stage. Winding across the mesa at the rear of the hotel, we have a lovely view of the little lake half hidden in the trees, reflecting in its quiet surface the mountains that rise up beyond it. Gradually climbing upward, we come to a tract of land that is watered by the Flume. To our surprise we learn that this is practically frostless, and that since this has been discovered many young orchards of oranges and lemons have been planted. The red mesa land on the side-hills will not be touched by the frosts of a cold night when the valley at its foot will have enough frost to kill all tender growth. This is a new discovery, and has placed thousands of acres on the market as suitable for the culture of citrus fruits. Do you notice how the appearance of the landscape is changing? The nearer hills are much sharper and steeper, and their sides are studded by great boulders. There are stone walls, and here and there are great flocks of sheep. The horses stop of their own accord at a lovely spot where they are used to getting a drink of cool spring water. Did any ever taste quite so good as that drunk from an old dipper after a long warm drive? The live-oaks and sycamores look too inviting to be resisted, and we get out to explore while the horses are resting. Underneath the evergreen shade we pick up some of the large pointed acorns and carry them away as souvenirs. This would be a delightful spot for a picnic, but we have many miles before us and must go on. In a few more miles we reach a little town known as "Alpine." In the distance looms the Viejas, and if any of the party wish to travel over a grade, now is the opportunity. The top of the grade brings us to a lovely view. Eastward is an unbroken chain of mountain-peaks, from whose summits may be seen the broad Pacific on one side and the Colorado Desert on the other.
One of the favorite drives is into the Monte. This is a large park or tract of a thousand acres. On each side the hills rise, and in front El Cajon shows new beauties with every step of the way. Great live-oaks with enormous trunks, ancient sycamores, elders, and willows make in some spots a dense shade. On the edge of the hillsides the Flume may be seen, which furnishes many ranches as well as the city of San Diego with the purest mountain water. Underneath the trees and up on the rocks the lover of flowers and ferns will scramble. There are the dainty forget-me-nots, tiny flowers of starry white, flowers of pale orange with centres of deep maroon, the wild galliardia, and the wild peony with its variegated leaves. Many other delicate blossoms which we cannot stop to describe are there too. And the ferns! All kinds may be found by the initiated, and many are close at hand. The fern lined with gold or with silver, the running ferns, the ferns of lace-like fineness, the ferns as soft as velvet, all growing in the greatest profusion. And each day of the week a different drive and new delights.
There is the valley of El Cajon ("the box"), which should be visited in grape-picking time. The great Boston ranch alone employs three hundred and twenty-five pickers. Men, women, children, all busy, and the grapes when just turned are sweet, spicy, and delicious, making the air fragrant. This valley is dotted with handsome villas and prosperous ranches. The range of mountains which looms up before us from the veranda of the hotel is not yet dignified by a name, yet it is more imposing than the White Mountains, and in the distance we see old Cuyamaca, nearly seven thousand feet high. But we must take the next train for San Diego, or this chapter will be a volume in itself. And I have not even alluded to the "Great Back Country."
The founder of San Diego is still living, still hopeful, still young at heart. "Father" Horton, the typical pioneer, deserves more honors than he has yet received. Coming from Connecticut to California in 1851, he soon made a small fortune in mining, buying and selling gold-dust, and providing the diggers with ice and water for their work. He rode over the country in those lawless times selling the precious dust disguised as a poverty-stricken good-for-naught, with trusty revolver always in his right hand on the pommel of the saddle--the handsome green saddle covered with an old potato sack. In this way he evaded the