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At Mission Dolores. The Monument (to the first Spanish Governor),—The Church.-The Old Adobe. -Spanish Children.

How the Cattle got into Newport Bay

An incident of Southern California Pioneer Life.
See the broad and level valley,
Stretching far and stretching farther-
From the mesas next the foot-hills
To the mesas next the ocean-
Flat and level like a table.
Through it winds the Santa Ana,
Scant and sluggish in the summer,
Burrowing in the sands and hiding
From the heats and glare of summer.
But when falls the rain of winter,
Falls the semi-tropic rain-flood,
Then it spreads a turbid torrent,
Overruns its banks of willows,
Fringe of reeds and guatemoles,
Frights the rabbit from his thicket;
Floods the lurking place of coyote,
Rouses from his sleep the badger,
And in hole or deep dug burrow,
Drowns the squirrel and the gopher.
But the valley, fairest valley!
Tempered by soft ocean breezes,
Fertile, healthful, ever lovely.
Here the raisin grape doth flourish,
Thrive the wine grape's juicy cluster,
Thrives the apple and the orange,
Thrives the apricot and walnut,
Olives, figs, pears, plums and peaches,
Nectarines, persimmons, loquats,
Fruits from every clime and country.
Thither from the Mississippi,
Wended once some hardy settlers;
Bought huge tracts of untilled ranchos ;
Grazed their cattle and their horses,
Burnt off fields of weedy jungle,
Broke the unaccustomed stubble,
Sowed their corn and sowed their barley;
And in tents or rude adobes
Patient watched the work of nature.
Sweetly blew Pacific's zephyrs,
Glowed the semi-tropic sunshine;
Upward sprang the corn and barley,
Flourished like the hopes of settlers.
“Never saw such corn and barley!
Sure the crop'll beat the dickens !"
But alas for fertile promise!
Dawned a morning bright and lovely ;
Lo! what are those moving creatures ?
Far away on corn and barley,
Trampling down its green luxuriance,
Range strange flocks and lowing cattle.
No vaqueros there to guide them,
No vaqueros there to stay them.

And all idly in his “'dobe”
Sits and smokes the swart ranchero.
“Zounds! but this is past endurance !"
Cries the thrifty, hardy settler.
“ Zounds! I'll blow his old black head off!"
Fiercely mounts his fractious bronco,
Seizes whip, all lithe and ready,
Chases off the hungry cattle,
Chases, swears, and sweats with sury.
Then unto the swarthy rancher:
“I won't ’low no more sech foolin';
Damn it! whereat's that ar cowboy?
He had better mind his bus'ness !
Ef I catch them cattle poachin'
I will shoot them down like rabbits."
Then the Mexican, all slowly :
"Señor, I am very sorry,
But vaqueros are so lazy,
And our cattle are so vagrant.
When you find them in your corn-fields,
When they trample o'er your barley,
Señor, you had better chase them,
Lash and thrash and chase them ever;
But-don't shoot them, gentle señor;
Shooting's something two can play at."
And the cool and wily greaser
Laid his hand upon his rifle.
Vexed and bafiled felt the Hoosier,
As he rueful viewed his grain fields.
Still, consoled himself by saying:
“There is yet a monster crop left;
Surely now they'll watch their cattle.”
Vain his hope, and vain his trusting.
Ever and again the cattle,
Vagrant, hungry, slyly ranging,
Seek the luscious green of barley ;
Trample down the juicy corn-stalks.
While the rude, unkempt vaqueros
Roll their eyes up in amazement;
Say: "O Señor, we did sleepa !
Jesu ! Señor, dey veel vanders,
Tires of filari' and clovah."

Yet again the settlers planted;
Yet again strange cattle raided;
Till at last, all patience vanished,
One fair night when glowed the moop-beams,
'Neath a syeamore were gathered
All these stalwart, wrathful Hoosiers
Counselling in eager whispers
How to outwit such rude neighbors.

And again (the moon full tardy
Lingered long behind Trubuco),
Met upon the plains the Hoosiers.
What are all these moving creatures

Guided by the wily settlers ?
They are Mexicano cattle,
Gathered here and gathered yonder,
Piloted by plotting Hoosiers
Softly, slowly, surely southward,
Through the malva and the mustard,
O'er the “filari'" and fox-tail,
By the sloughs and by the tules,
To the mesas near the ocean.
When the moon beyond Trubuco
Rises full-faced and expectant,
Lo! far out upon the mesa
Goaded on by strange vaqueros,
Are those roving, thieving cattle.
No more will they tramp green rley;
No more crunch the juicy corn-stalk;
Wild-eyed, snorting, plunging, bellowing,
Southward, southward, ever southward,
They are prodded, they are goaded,
Lashed and thrashed to wildest fury.
See! the bay beyond the mesa
Softly glimmers 'neath the moonlight.
Ah! what breaks its dimpling surface ?
Churns to foam its deeps and shallows ?
Down the steeps that guard its border,
Pell-mell, rolling, leaping, tumbling,
Come these vagrant, poaching cattle !
O'er the cliff they goad each other;
Stain with blood the peaceful waters,
While from hill to hill wild echoes
Each dumb brute's last cry of anguish.
When the sun from o'er Trubuco
Looks again upon the valley,
Scurrying hither, thither, yonder,
Run unkempt, perplexed vaqueros.
“Jesu! Jesu! Oh! car-r-amba !
Hast thou seen our cattle, Señors ?”
And each Hoosier, calmly smoking,
Lazily on rifle leaning,
Answers slowly, answers sternly:
“Whereat are those vagrant cattle ?
Damn it! I am not your cowboy.
Ef they're not upon my rancho,
In my corn or on my barley,
Where they are is none my fun'ral,
They may go straight to the devil.
Gad! but he's the kind of cowboy
Fittest for sech poachin' creeters !”

Augusta E. Towner.

Clay street, over the Savings Bank is a suite of rooms well adapted for artists' use. Some years ago they were occupied by Rodriguez and some fellow painters who covered the walls in their leisure hours with every device of the idle brush, making the helpless plaster bear the work of their wild fancies.

Young Barkhaus, the promising young artist, who died recently in Munich, was often there and contributed his quota to the designs. One day he amused himself by painting on the wall in one corner of the room down near the baseboard, a hole in the plastering, as though some ill natured fellow had vented his spite against the world by kicking a hole in the wall.

The picture was capitally done; there was an ugly ragged hole in the plastering with huge gaping cracks radiating from the corners, here and there round the edges of the hole a bit of gray mortar, where the “hard finish” had scaled off and in the middle of all the bare laths, with bits of plaster between them.

Time wore on, and Rodriguez left the rooms; another tenant came in and wanted the place cleaned up and put in order before occupation. Orders were given to repair the walls and kalsomine them. The artist of the kalsomine brush repaired thither with his men, armed with buckets of plaster to fill the numerous nail-holes and scars in the walls. His attention was at once directed to the big hole near the baseboard, and he himself started to repair it. He kneeled down before it, dipped his brush in water to wet the laths before putting on the new plaster, and laid it gently on the supposed board—and then for the first time realized that he was taken in. The artist in oil had deceived his fellow of the kalsomine brush completely.

I will spare his blushes by not giving his name, for he owned up like a man and confessed he was “sold.” It is needless to say the “hole” was not kalsomined but remains to take in some future plasterer.

To My Correspondent who writes of

the Weather.

Write all about yourself, my dear!

For I don't care, I'm sure-Oh, Reports as if from “Probs” to hear,

Or from the Weather Bureau.

The Triumph of Art.

The old Greek legend of Zeuxis and Parrhasius, the artist fooled by art itself, was re-enacted a few days ago in San Francisco. On the south side of

I wish to hear of you—the straws

That show which way you're blowing; I want to know your life, because

Your life is worth the knowing.

I long to follow all your hours;

Your dreams when day is winking; And what you like, in folks and flowers,

And what you think you're thinking. Then put away upon a shelf

The outside world; and whether It snow or blow, just write yourself, And

{ ¢dward Readem sek. In Stubblefields.

I have seen growing far reaching grain fields,

Emerald and shining;
Gray were the beards that seemed as mists floating

When day is declining.
I have seen grain flelds golden for harvest.

While as a glory
Each spike was bearing its gleaming arista,

Like saints of old story.

Our skies and hills were dear? And how bright

wings Did glisten in the tangled “hedge-row things”

So loved by thee?

Now thou art free
From cumbrous burden of the failing clay,
And know'st the glory of the spirit day,

Dost thou look back upon us here

To this lone spot where, for a year, Has lain thy form so dear-so dear?

And does our light seem dark to eyes

Grown used to suns of paradise ? This spot where glad free creatures come and go, And, loitering on the grasses, seem to know How dear the place to her who lies below;

This spot where thou didst dream

Does it in twilight seem,
And we but shadows as we pass,
When kneeling on the scented grass.
We reverent touch the fragrant mould
Which doth such sacred treasure hold ?

Or dost thou know, beyond,

Our hearts' deep throb and fond
As we the wild kinnikinnick unbind
And its long shreds about our fingers wind ?

O humble shrub, what trust is thine !

Above such dead more closely twine, And swing thy pink-white bells with churchly

Thy holly-berries for her Christmas tide

Spread bright beneath thy crystal snows;
Anemone and low wild rose,

And every tiny bud that blows,
Make ye mosaics in God's patterns laid
Above this tomb beneath the pine trees' shade.

For O! she knows and loves you still,

All ye wild things upon the hill, And in the kindling morns and evening glows Sees you with joy. Grow well—she knows, she

I see those grain fields covered with stubble,

Empty and lonely;
Gone are their beauties and all I find there
Are memories only.

Charles A. Gunnison

On Cheyenne Mountain.

August 1886.

Upon the “Singer's Hills,” O soul!
Thou dwell'st, where purple splendors roll

Across thy sight;

In that new light,
Above those mountains of red gold,
Dost thou look back upon the cold
Of dull, grey vapors that enfold

This earth?

Has birth
Into the life where souls are known,
Made thee forget how to thine own,


Robert Fulton. This volume insures an interest from its being the biography of the man who made the first practical demonstration of the use of steam as a motive power in the propulsion of vessels. He never claimed to have been the first to suggest steam

The Life of Robert Fulton and a History of Steam Navigation. By Thomas W. Knox. New York and London: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1886. For sale in San Francisco by Samuel Carson & Co.


Amelia Woodward Truesdell.

navigation, but simply to have devised improvements by which it could be successfully accomplished. Apart from his efforts and experiments in the use of steam, from the crude beginnings up to the successful use of it, there is not much in the book. As a boy or man there was little in his life worth telling ; but the early enthusiasm of a mechanical genius is interesting to witness, and his persistent efforts and progress to the consum“Fulton's name,” says his biographer, "is not ray of sunshine from the complexion, a sun-bonnet upon the slab, nor is there any monument near the sewed on her head, and long gloves covering the spot to show that his remains are there....... hands and arms?” Did mothers in those days, The grave of the builder of the first successful pas- Quaker mothers, too, take such precautions to keep senger steamboat and of the first steamship of war sun and wind from the complexions of their little that was ever launched, is unmarked by a monu- daughters? While incredulous as to any such ment, or even by a stone of any kind, bearing his custom, yet we find other pictures of life and manname.........

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mation of his desires make a theme that enlists the was, what our society reporters are pleased to call attention and ensures the entertainment of most in- the “first lady of the land” for Jefferson, being a telligent people.

widower, relied upon the beautiful and amiable wife Robert Fulton was born in Pennsylvania in of his Secretary of State to do the social honors of 1765, and died in New York in 1815. His first his administration; and when her husband became successful steamboat was “The Claremont," which President, she was already enthroned in the affecwas built at a shipyard on the East River, and was tions of a people susceptible to the charms of womcompleted in the spring of 1807; and the first anly grace and goodness. trial trip was in August of the same year from The influence exercised by Mrs. Madison in her New York to Albany, making the passage up the day and generation came entirely from the femininity river, a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, in of her character. Beauty, grace, tact, good memory,' thirty-two hours, an average of five miles an hour. and genuine kindness of heart, with warm affecThe return trip was made in thirty hours. The tions, were all hers and from childhood won for her rest of his life was devoted to steamboat building, love and consideration. to working improvements upon his earlier inven- Our authoress describes Mary Coles, the mother tions, to litigating with the swarm of persons who of her heroine, as a great belle with many admirers, crowded about anticipating him in energy some

including Jefferson ; and then on the next page times in acquiring patents upon his own inven- says of her and her husband, that they were strict tions, in building ferry-boats, submarine boats, and members of the “Society of Friends.” We may, in the accomplishment of one of his most noted perhaps, conclude that Mary Coles, after her marsuccesses, that of the first steam frigate that was ever riage, changed from a society belle to a strict built, “The Demologos,” but subsequently named Quaker; but how can we reconcile her Quaker "The Fulton the First."

principles about dress and jewelry, the latter being The body of Robert Fulton was buried in Trinity entirely denied her daughter, with the statement church-yard in the city of New York, and it now that little Dolly was sent to school each morning lies there in the vault of Robert Livingston. “equipped with a white linen mask to keep every

... The grave is but a few yards from ners that make one of the chief features of interest the elevated railway, where every day pass hun

in this little volume. dreds of trains bearing thousands of passengers in For example, when Dolly, now Mrs. Todd, a their journeys between the business and residence young widow, became engaged to James Madison, portions of New York. How many of these thou- she and her lover and a party of friends went from sands know where Fulton is buried ?"

Philadelphia where she was living, to the resiScarcely more than a third of this volume is dence of her sister in Virginia, to be married. devoted to the life of Fulton. The remainder is The weather was fine (September, 1794). The progiven up to a pleasant and concise history of steam spective bride with her little son, her maid, and a navigation since his day, in America, in Europe, sister of twelve, occupied a carriage, while Mr. and in Asia, the Cunard, the Collins, the Inman, Madison and several friends rode on horse back. and other great steamship lines, with a full and The gay cavalcade were a week on the way. What particular account of the Great Eastern, her a delightful time they must have had ! Railways achievements and failures, with details of her have spoiled such pleasant journeyings. structure and capacities, and much interesting Mr. Madison was twenty years her senior matter concerning torpedoes and torpedo-boats, and a confirmed bachelor when he first saw the iron-clads, and the navies of the world.

charming young widow. He surrendered at

once. His marriage brought him a sympathetic Memoirs and Letters of Dolly Madison.

and affectionate wife, as well as a society queen to Mrs. Madison (“Queen Dolly") deserves a more grace his administration. Her influence did much lively biography than is here given by her grand- to soften the asperities of politicians. In his niece. For sixteen years (1801-17) Mrs. Madison time personal bitterness exceeded anything we

Memoirs and Letters of Dolly Madison. By her Grand- have known in ours; "yet she was beloved by niece. Houghton, Miillin & Co: Boston. in San Francisco by Chilion Beach.

all parties, and embittered politicians who never


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