Out of Doors--California and Oregon | Page 4

been spent amid scenes
of rare beauty. The wild flowers are not yet out in profusion, but
enough were there to give the traveler an idea of what can be expected
in floral offerings later in the season. It was early Spring wherever the
elevation was 3500 feet or better. The oaks were not yet in leaf, the
sycamores just out in their new spring dresses, the wild pea blossoms
just beginning to open and cast their fragrance to the breezes.
Far Below.
Yellow buttercups adorned the warmer spots in each sunny valley. Way
below us in the open country great fields of poppies greeted the
gladdened eye. The freshness of spring was in the air. Each breath we
inhaled was full of new life. The odor of the pines mingled its fragrance

with that of the apple blossoms.
Del Mar is the Del Monte of Southern California. We arrived at
Stratford Inn, at that place, which is as well furnished and as well kept
as any hotel on the Coast. A small garden, an adjunct of the hotel,
shows what the soil and climate of Del Mar is capable of producing.
Tomato vines are never frosted. The vegetables from the garden have a
fresher, crisper taste than those grown in a drier atmosphere. How good
and comfortable the bed felt to us that night! Sleep came, leaving the
body inert and lifeless in one position for hours at a time. The open air,
the sunshine, the long ride, the ever changing scenery, brought one
joyous slumber, such as a healthy, happy, tired child enjoys.
The next morning, after an ample, well-cooked and well-served
breakfast, we took the road on the last leg of our journey. Over miles
and miles of new-made roads we sped. Soon the long detour up the San
Luis Rey Valley will be a thing of the past. The new county highway
will pursue a much more direct course. We passed through miles of
land being prepared for bean culture. Miles of hay and grain, miles of
pasturage, in which sleek cattle grazed peacefully, or, having fed their
fill, lay upon the rich grasses and enjoyed life. Near the coast the
growth of grain and grass far surpasses that of the interior.
Santa Marguerita Rancho, with its boundless expanse of grass-covered
pasturage lands, its thousands of head of cattle and horses, its
thousands of acres of bean lands, ready for seed, is worth going miles
to see.
At noon we reached San Juan Capistrano. We drove into the grounds of
the hospitable Judge Egan. At a table, beneath the grateful shade of
giant trees, amid the perfume of flowers, the sweet songs of happy
birds, we ate our lunch. After a short rest we took up the run again. We
passed El Toro and finally came onto the great San Joaquin ranch,
every acre of which is now highly cultivated.
Then came the Santa Ana region, thickly settled, rich in soil and
products. We passed through beautiful and enterprising Santa Ana,
through miles upon miles of walnut, orange and other fruit groves,
through a solid settlement extending far on each side of the road, to
Anaheim. And still on through more walnut and orange groves, more
wealth-producing crops.
Through the orange and lemon and walnut groves of Fullerton,

extending to and forming a large part of Whittier, I could not help
exclaiming to myself, "What an empire this is! Where is the country
that yields the annual returns per acre that this land does?" At Whittier
we got into one of the newly constructed county highways, and at 3:30
p. m. we were home again, after four days in the open, four days of
pure and unadulterated happiness.

A Hunting Trip in the Long Ago
One of the disadvantages of old age, even advancing years, is the
pleasure we lose in anticipating future events. Enthusiastic youth
derives more pleasure in planning a journey, an outing or a social
gathering than can possibly be realized from any human experience.
With what pleasure the young set out, getting ready for a hunting trip,
or an excursion to some remote locality never visited by them!
From the first day I arrived in Los Angeles, I had heard of the Fort
Tejon and the Rancho La Liebre country as a hunting paradise, extolled
by all people I met, who were given to spending an occasional week or
two in the mountains in search of game. In consequence of what I had
heard of this region, I made up my mind to go there the first time I got
an opportunity.
Among the first acquaintances I made here was a dear old man named
A. C. Chauvin, formerly of St. Louis, Mo., and of French descent. He
had spent many years in