I have not been much of a traveler abroad, or even beyond the Pacific states. I have been to the Atlantic shore four times since my emigration thence, and going or coming I visited Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, and other points, but have no striking memories of any of them. In 1914 I had a very delightful visit to the Hawaiian Islands, including the volcano. It was full of interest and charm, with a beauty and an atmosphere all its own; but any description, or the story of experiences or impressions, would but re-echo what has been told adequately by others. British Columbia and western Washington I found full of interest and greatly enjoyed; but they also must be left unsung. My outings from my beaten track have been brief, but have contributed a large stock of happy memories. Camping in California is a joy that never palls, and among the pleasantest pictures on memory’s walls are the companionship of congenial friends in the beautiful surroundings afforded by the Santa Cruz Mountains. Twice in all the years since leaving Humboldt have I revisited its hospitable shores and its most impressive redwoods. My love for it will never grow less. Twice, too, have I reveled in the Yosemite Valley and beyond to the valley that will form a majestic lake glorious Hetch-Hetchy.

I am thankful for the opportunity I have enjoyed of seeing so fully the great Pacific empire. My church supervision included California, Oregon, and Washington, with the southern fringe of Canada for good measure. Even without this attractive neighbor my territory was larger than France (or Germany) and Belgium, England, Wales, and Ireland combined. San Diego, Bellingham, and Spokane were the triangle of bright stars that bounded the constellation. To have found friends and to be sure of a welcome at all of these and everywhere between was a great extension to my enjoyment, and visiting them was not only a pleasant duty but a delightful outing.

IN THE SIERRAS

Belated vacations perhaps gain more than they lose, and in the sum total at least hold their own. It is one advantage of being well distributed that opportunities increase. In that an individual is an unsalaried editor, extensive or expensive trips are unthinkable; that his calling affords necessities but a scant allowance of luxuries, leaves recreation in the Sierras out of the question; but that by the accidents of politics he happens to be a supervisor, certain privileges, disguised attractively as duties, prove too alluring to resist.

The city had an option on certain remote lands supposed to be of great value for water and power, and no one wants to buy a pig of that size in a poke, so it was ordained that the city fathers, with their engineer and various clerks and functionaries entitled to a vacation and desiring information (or vice versa), should visit the lands proposed to be acquired.

In 1908 the supervisors inspected the dam-sites at Lake Eleanor and the Hetch-Hetchy, but gained little idea of the intervening country and the route of the water on its way to the city. Subsequently the trip was more thoroughly planned and the result was satisfactory, both in the end attained and in the incidental process.

On the morning of August 17, 1910, the party of seventeen disembarked from the Stockton boat, followed by four fine municipal automobiles. When the men and the machines were satisfactorily supplied with fuel and the outfit was appropriately photographed, the procession started mountainward. For some time the good roads, fairly well watered, passed over level, fruitful country, with comfortable homes. Then came gently rolling land and soon the foothills, with gravelly soil and scattered pines. A few orchards and ranches were passed, but not much that was really attractive. Then we reached the scenes of early-day mining and half-deserted towns known to Bret Harte and the days of gold. Knight’s Ferry became a memory instead of a name. Chinese Camp, once harboring thousands, is now a handful of houses and a few lonely stores and saloons. It had cast sixty-five votes a few days before our visit.

Then came a stratum of mills and mines, mostly deserted, a few operating sufficiently to discolor with the crushed mineral the streams flowing by. Soon we reached the Tuolumne, with clear, pellucid water in limited quantities, for the snow was not very plentiful the previous winter and it melted early.

Following its banks for a time, the road turned to climb a hill, and well along in the afternoon we reached “Priests,” a favorite roadhouse of the early stage line to the Yosemite. Here a good dinner was enjoyed, the machines were overhauled, and on we went. Then Big Oak Flat, a mining town of some importance, was passed, and a few miles farther Groveland, where a quite active community turned out en masse to welcome the distinguished travelers. The day’s work was done and the citizens showed a pathetic interest which testified to how little ordinarily happened. The shades of night were well down when Hamilton’s was reached a stopping-place once well known, but now off the line of travel. Here we were hospitably entertained and slept soundly after a full day’s exercise. In the memory of all, perhaps the abundance of fried chicken for breakfast stands out as the distinguishing feature. A few will always remember it as the spot where for the first time they found themselves aboard a horse, and no kind chronicler would refer to which side of the animal they selected for the ascent. The municipally chartered pack-train, with cooks and supplies for man and beast, numbered over sixty animals, and chaparejos and cowboys, real and near, were numerous.

The ride to the rim of the South Fork of the Tuolumne was short. The new trail was not sufficiently settled to be safe for the sharp descents, and for three-quarters of a mile the horses and mules were turned loose and the company dropped down the mountainside on foot. The lovely stream of water running between mountainous, wooded banks was followed up for many miles.

About midday a charming spot for luncheon was found, where Corral Creek tumbles in a fine cascade on its way to the river. The day was warm, and when the mouth of Eleanor Creek was reached many enjoyed a good swim in an attractive deep basin.

Turning to the north, the bank of Eleanor was followed to the first camping-place, Plum Flat, an attractive clearing, where wild plums have been augmented by fruit and vegetables. Here, after a good dinner served in the open by the municipal cooks, the municipal sleeping-bags were distributed, and soft and level spots were sought for their spreading. The seasoned campers were happy and enjoyed the luxury. Some who for the first time reposed upon the breast of Mother Earth failed to find her charm. One father awoke in the morning, sat up promptly, pointed his hand dramatically to the zenith, and said, “Never again!” But he lived to revel in the open-air caravansary, and came home a tougher and a wiser man.

A ride of fifteen miles through a finely wooded country brought us to the Lake Eleanor dam-site and the municipal camp, where general preparations are being made and runoff records are being taken. In a comfortable log house two assistants to the engineer spent the winter, keeping records of rainfall and other meteorological data.

While we were in camp here, Lake Eleanor, a mile distant, was visited and enjoyed in various ways, and those who felt an interest in the main purpose of the trip rode over into the Cherry Creek watershed and inspected the sites and rights whose purchase is contemplated. Saturday morning we left Lake Eleanor and climbed the steep ridge separating its watershed from that of the Tuolumne. From Eleanor to Hetch-Hetchy as the crow would fly, if there were a crow and he wanted to fly, is five miles. As mules crawl and men climb, it takes five hours. But it is well worth it for association with granite helps any politician.

Hetch-Hetchy Valley is about half as large as Yosemite and almost as beautiful. Early in the season the mosquitoes make life miserable, but as late as August the swampy land is pretty well dried up and they are few. The Tuolumne tumbles in less effectively than the Merced enters Yosemite. Instead of two falls of nine hundred feet, there is one of twenty or so. The Wampana, corresponding to the Yosemite Falls, is not so high nor so picturesque, but is more industrious, and apparently takes no vacation. Kolana is a noble knob, but not quite so imposing as Sentinel Rock.

We camped in the valley two days and found it very delightful. The dam-site is not surpassed. Nowhere in the world, it is said, can so large a body of water be impounded so securely at so small an expense.

There is an admirable camping-ground within easy distance of the valley, and engineers say that at small expense a good trail, and even a wagon-road, can be built along the face of the north wall, making possible a fine view of the magnificent lake.

With the argument for granting the right the city seeks I am not here concerned. The only purpose in view is the casual recital of a good time. It has to do with a delightful sojourn in good company, with songs around the camp-fire, trips up and down the valley, the taking of photographs, the appreciation of brook-trout, the towering mountains, the moon and stars that looked down on eyes facing direct from welcome beds. Mention might be made of the discovery of characters types of mountain guides who prove to be scholars and philosophers; of mules, like “Flapjack,” of literary fame; of close intercourse with men at their best; of excellent appetites satisfactorily met; of genial sun and of water so alluring as to compel intemperance in its use.

The climbing of the south wall in the early morning, the noonday stop at Hog Ranch, and the touching farewell to mounts and pack-train, the exhilarating ride to Crocker’s, and the varied attractions of that fascinating resort, must be unsung. A night of mingled pleasure and rest with every want luxuriously supplied, a half-day of good coaching, and once more Yosemite the wonder of the West.

Its charms need no rehearsing. They not only never fade, but they grow with familiarity. The delight of standing on the summit of Sentinel Dome, conscious that your own good muscles have lifted you over four thousand feet from the valley’s floor, with such a world spread before you; the indescribable beauty of a sunrise at Glacier Point, the beauty and majesty of Vernal and Nevada falls, the knightly crest of the Half Dome, and the imposing grandeur of the great Capitan what words can even hint their varied glory!

All this packed into a week, and one comes back strengthened in body and spirit, with a renewed conviction of the beauty of the world, and a freshened readiness to lend a hand in holding human nature up to a standard that shall not shame the older sister.

A DAY IN CONCORD

There are many lovely spots in New England when June is doing her best. Rolling hills dotted with graceful elms, meadows fresh with the greenest of grass, streams of water winding through the peaceful stretches, robins hopping in friendly confidence, distant hills blue against the horizon, soft clouds floating in the sky, air laden with the odor of lilacs and vibrant with songs of birds. There are many other spots of great historic interest, beautiful or not it doesn’t matter much where memorable meetings have been held which set in motion events that changed the course of history, or where battles have been fought that no American can forget. There are still other places rich with human interest where some man of renown has lived and died some man who has made his undying mark in letters, or has been a source of inspiration through his calm philosophy. But if one would stand upon the particular spot which can claim supremacy in each of these three respects, where can he go but to Concord, Massachusetts!

It would be hard to find a lovelier view anywhere in the gentle East than is to be gained from the Reservoir Height a beautifully broken landscape, hill and dale, woodland, distant trees, two converging streams embracing and flowing in a quiet, decorous union beneath the historic bridge, comfortable homes, many of them too simple and dignified to be suspected of being modern, a cluster of steeples rising above the elms in the center of the town, pastures and plowed fields, well-fed Jerseys resting under the oaks, an occasional canoe floating on the gentle stream, genuine old New England homes, painted white, with green blinds, generous wood-piles near at hand, comfortable barns, and blossoming orchards, now and then a luxurious house, showing the architect’s effort to preserve the harmonious all of these and more, to form a scene of pastoral beauty and with nothing to mar the picture no uncompromising factories, no blocks of flats, no elevated roads, no glaring signs of Cuban cheroots or Peruna bitters. It is simply an ideal exhibit of all that is most beautiful and attractive in New England scenery and life, and its charm is very great.

Turning to its historic interest, one is reminded of it at every side. Upon a faithful reproduction of the original meeting-house, a tablet informs the visitor that here the first meeting was held that led to national independence. A placard on a quaint old hostelry informs us that it was a tavern in pre-Revolutionary times. Leaving the common, around which most New England towns cluster, one soon reaches Monument Street. Following it until houses grow infrequent, one comes to an interesting specimen which seems familiar. A conspicuous sign proclaims it private property and that sightseers are not welcome. It is the Old Manse made immortal by the genius of Hawthorne. Near by, an interesting road intersects leading to a river. Soon we descry a granite monument at the famous bridge, and across the bridge The Minute Man. The inscription on the monument informs us that here the first British soldier fell. An iron chain incloses a little plot by the side of a stone wall where rest those who met the first armed resistance. Crossing the bridge which spans a dark and sluggish stream one reaches Frenchs fine statue with Emersons noble inscription,

“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.”

No historic spot has a finer setting or an atmosphere so well fitted to calm reflection on a momentous event.

On the way to Concord, if one is so fortunate as to go by trolley, one passes through Lexington and catches a glimpse of its bronze “Minute Man,” more spirited and lifelike in its tense suspended motion than French’s calm and determined farmer-soldier. In the side of a farmhouse near the Concord battle-field if such an encounter can be called a battle a shot from a British bullet pierced the wood, and that historic orifice is carefully preserved; a diamond-shaped pane surrounds it. Our friend, Rev. A.W. Jackson, remarked, “I suppose if that house should burn down, the first thing they would try to save would be that bullet-hole.”

But Concord is richest in the memory of the men who have lived and died there, and whose character and influence have made it a center of world-wide inspiration. One has but to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery to be impressed with the number and weight of remarkable names associated with this quiet town, little more than a village. Sleepy Hollow is one of a number of rather unusual depressions separated by sharp ridges that border the town. The hills are wooded, and in some instances their steep sides make them seem like the half of a California canyon. The cemetery is not in the cuplike valley, but on the side and summit of a gentle hill. It is well kept and very impressive. One of the first names to attract attention is “Hawthorne,” cut on a simple slab with rounded top. It is the sole inscription on the little stone about a foot high. Simplicity could go no farther. Within a small radius are found the graves of Emerson, Thoreau, Alcott, John Weiss, and Samuel Hoar. Emerson’s monument is a beautiful boulder, on the smoothed side of which is placed a bronze tablet. The inscriptions on the stones placed to the memory of the different members of the family are most fitting and touching. This is also true of the singularly fine inscriptions in the lot where rest several generations of the Hoar family. A good article might be written on monumental inscriptions in the Concord burial-ground. It is a lovely spot where these illustrious sons of Concord have found their final resting-place, and a pilgrimage to it cannot but freshen one’s sense of indebtedness to these gifted men of pure lives and elevated thoughts.

The most enjoyable incident of the delightful Decoration Day on which our trip was made was a visit to Emerson’s home. His daughter was in New York, but we were given the privilege of freely taking possession of the library and parlor. Everything is as the sage left it. His books are undisturbed, his portfolio of notes lies upon the table, and his favorite chair invites the friend who feels he can occupy it. The atmosphere is quietly simple. The few pictures are good, but not conspicuous or insistent. The books bear evidence of loving use. Bindings were evidently of no interest. Nearly all the books are in the original cloth, now faded and worn. One expects to see the books of his contemporaries and friends, and the expectation is met. They are mostly in first editions, and many of them are almost shabby. Taking down the first volume of The Dial, I found it well filled with narrow strips of paper, marking articles of especial interest. The authors’ names not being given, they were frequently supplied by Mr. Emerson on the margin. I noticed opposite one article the words “T. Parker” in Mr. Emerson’s writing. The books covered one side of a good-sized room and ran through the connecting hall into the quaint parlor, or sitting-room, behind it. A matting covered the floor, candlesticks rested on the chimney-piece, and there was no meaningless bric-a-brac, nor other objects of suspected beauty to distract attention. As you enter the house, the library occupies the large right-hand corner room. It was simple to the verge of austerity, and the farthest possible removed from a “collection.” There was no effort at arrangement they were just books, for use and for their own sake. The portfolio of fugitive notes and possible material for future use was interesting, suggesting the source of much that went to make up those fascinating essays where the “thoughts” often made no pretense at sequence, but rested in peaceful unregulated proximity, like eggs in a nest. Here is a sentence that evidently didn’t quite satisfy him, an uncertain mark of erasure leaving the approved portion in doubt: “Read proudly. Put the duty of being read invariably on the author. If he is not read, whose fault is it? I am quite ready to be charmed but I shall not make believe I am charmed.” Dear man! he never would “make believe.” Transparent, sincere soul, how he puts to shame all affectation and pretense! Mr. Jackson says his townsmen found it hard to realize that he was great. They always thought of him as the kindly neighbor. One old farmer told of his experience in driving home a load of hay. He was approaching a gate and was just preparing to climb down to open it, when an old gentleman nimbly ran ahead and opened it for him. It was Emerson, who apparently never gave it a second thought. It was simply the natural thing for him to do.

Walden Pond is some little distance from the Emerson home, and the time at our disposal did not permit a visit. But we had seen enough and felt enough to leave a memory of rare enjoyment to the credit of that precious day in Concord.

FIVE DAYS

There are several degrees of rest, and there are many ways of resting. What is rest to one person might be an intolerable bore to another, but when one finds the ultimate he is never after in doubt. He knows what is, to him, the real thing. The effect of a sufficient season, say five days, to one who had managed to find very little for a disgracefully long time, is not easy to describe, but very agreeable to feel.

My friend has a novel retreat. He is fond of nature as manifested in the growth of trees and plants, and some seventeen years ago he bought a few acres, mostly of woods, in the Santa Cruz Mountains. There was a small orchard, a few acres of hillside hayfield, and a little good land where garden things would grow.

There was, too, a somewhat eccentric house where a man who was trying to be theosophical had lived and communed with his mystified soul. To foster the process he had more or less blue glass and a window of Gothic form in the peak of his rambling house. In his living-room a round window, with Sanskrit characters, let in a doubtful gleam from another room. In the side-hill a supposedly fireproof vault had been built to hold the manuscript that held his precious thoughts. In the gulch he had a sacred spot, where, under the majestic redwoods, he retired to write, and in a small building he had a small printing-press, from which the world was to have been led to the light. But there was some failure of connection, and stern necessity compelled the surrender of these high hopes. My friend took over the plant, and the reformer reformed and went off to earn his daily bread.

His memory is kept alive by the name Mahatma, given to the gulch, and the blue glass has what effect it may on a neighbor’s vegetables. The little house was made habitable. The home of the press was comfortably ceiled and made into a guest-chamber, and apples and potatoes are stored in the fireproof vault. The acres were fairly covered with a second growth of redwood and a wealth of madroños and other native trees; but there were many spaces where Nature invited assistance, and my friend every year has planted trees of many kinds from many climes, until he has an arboretum hardly equaled anywhere. There are pines in endless variety from the Sierra and from the seashore, from New England, France, Norway, and Japan. There flourish the cedar, spruce, hemlock, oak, beech, birch, and maple. There in peace and plenty are the sequoia, the bamboo, and the deodar. Eucalypts pierce the sky and Japanese dwarfs hug the ground.

These children of the woodland vary in age from six months to sixteen years, and each has its interest and tells its story of struggle, with results of success or failure, as conditions determine. At the entrance to the grounds an incense-cedar on one side and an arbor-vitae on the other stand dignified guard. The acres have been added to until about sixty are covered with growing trees. Around the house, which wisteria has almost covered, is a garden in which roses predominate, but hollyhocks, coreopsis, and other flowers not demanding constant care grow in luxuriance. There is abundance of water, and filtered sunshine gives a delightful temperature. The thermometer on the vine-clad porch runs up to 80 in the daytime and in the night drops down to 40.

A sympathetic Italian lives not far away, keeping a good cow, raising amazingly good vegetables, gathering the apples and other fruit, and caring for the place. The house is unoccupied except during the five days each month when my friend restores himself, mentally and physically, by rest and quiet contemplation and observation. He takes with him a faithful servitor, whose old age is made happy by these periodical sojourns, and the simple life is enjoyed to the full.

Into this Resthaven it was my happy privilege to spend five-sevenths of a week of August, and the rare privilege of being obliged to do nothing was a great delight. Early rising was permissible, but not encouraged. At eight o’clock a rich Hibernian voice was heard to say, “Hot water, Mr. Murdock,” and it was so. A simple breakfast, meatless, but including the best of coffee and apricots, tree-ripened and fresh, was enjoyed at leisure undisturbed by thought of awaiting labor. Following the pleasant breakfast chat was a forenoon of converse with my friend or a friendly book or magazine, broken by a stroll through some part of the wood and introduction to the hospitably entertained trees from distant parts. My friend is something of a botanist, and was able to pronounce the court names of all his visitors. Wild flowers still persist, and among others was pointed out one which was unknown to the world till he chanced to find it.

Very interesting is the fact that the flora of the region, which is a thousand feet above sea-level, has many of the characteristics of beach vicinity, and the reason is disclosed by the outcropping at various points of a deposit of white sand, very fine, and showing under the microscope the smoothly rounded form that tells of the rolling waves. This deposit is said to be traceable for two hundred miles easterly, and where it has been eroded by the streams of today enormous trees have grown on the deposited soil. The mind is lost in conjecture of the time that must have elapsed since an ancient sea wore to infinitesimal bits the quartz that some rushing stream had brought from its native mountains.

Another interesting feature of the landscape was the clearly marked course of the old “Indian trail,” known to the earliest settlers, which followed through this region from the coast at Santa Cruz to the Santa Clara Valley. It followed the most accessible ridges and showed elemental surveying of a high order. Along its line are still found bits of rusted iron, with specks of silver, relics of the spurs and bridles of the caballeros of the early days.

The maples that sheltered the house are thinned out, that the sun may not be excluded, and until its glare becomes too radiant the steamer-chair or the rocker seeks the open that the genial page of “Susan’s Escort, and Others,” one of the inimitable books of Edward Everett Hale, may be enjoyed in comfort. When midday comes the denser shade of tree or porch is sought, and coats come off. At noon dinner is welcome, and proves that the high cost of living is largely a conventional requirement. It may be beans or a bit of roast ham brought from home, with potatoes or tomatoes, good bread and butter, and a dessert of toasted crackers with loganberries and cream. To experience the comfort of not eating too much and to find how little can be satisfying is a great lesson in the art of living. To supplement, and dispose of, this homily on food, our supper was always baked potatoes and cream toast, but such potatoes and real cream toast! Of course, fruit was always “on tap,” and the good coffee reappeared.

In the cool of the afternoon a longer walk. Good trails lead over the whole place, and sometimes we would go afield and call on some neighbor. Almost invariably they were Italians, who were thriving where improvident Americans had given up in despair. Always my friend found friendly welcome. This one he had helped out of a trouble with a refractory pump, that one he had befriended in some other way. All were glad to see him, and wished him well. What a poor investment it is to quarrel with a neighbor!

Sometimes my friend would busy himself by leading water to some neglected and thirsty plant, while I was re-reading “Tom Grogan” or Brander Matthews’ plays, but for much of the time we talked and exchanged views on current topics or old friends. When the evening came we prudently went inside and continued our reading or our talk till we felt inclined to seek our comfortable beds and the oblivion that blots out troubles or pleasures.

And so on for five momentous days. Quite unlike the “Seven Days” in the delightful farce-comedy of that name, in which everything happened, here nothing seemed to happen. We were miles from a post-office, and newspapers disturbed us not. The world of human activity was as though it were not. Politics as we left it was a disturbing memory, but no fresh outbreaks aggravated our discomfort. We were at rest and we rested. A good recipe for long life, I think, would be: withdraw from life’s turmoil regularly five days in a month.

AN ANNIVERSARY

The Humboldt County business established and conducted on honor by Alex. Brizard was continued on like lines by his three sons with conspicuous success. As the fiftieth anniversary approached they arranged to fitly celebrate the event. They invited many of their father’s and business associates to take part in the anniversary observance in July, 1913. With regret, I was about to decline when my good friend Henry Michaels, a State Guard associate, who had become the head of the leading house in drugs and medicines with which Brizard and his sons had extensively dealt, came in and urged me to join him in motoring to Humboldt. He wanted to go, but would not go alone and the double delight of his company and joining in the anniversary led to prompt acceptance of his generous proposal. There followed one of the most enjoyable outings of my life. I had never compassed the overland trip to Humboldt, and while I naturally expected much the realization far exceeded my anticipations.

From the fine highway following the main ridge the various branches of the Eel River were clearly outlined, and when we penetrated the world-famous redwood belt and approached the coast our enjoyment seemed almost impious, as though we were motoring through a cathedral.

We found Arcata bedecked for the coming anniversary. The whole community felt its significance. When the hour came every store in town closed. Seemingly the whole population assembled in and around the Brizard store, anxious to express kindly memory and approval of those who so well sustained the traditions of the elders. The oldest son made a brief, manly address and introduced a few of the many who could have borne tribute. It was a happy occasion in which good-will was made very evident. A ball in the evening concluded the festivities, and it was with positive regret that we turned from the delightful atmosphere and retraced our steps to home and duty.