Ah well! one cannot stay forever on the Monterey Peninsula to hear the sighing of the wind in the pines and the lapping of the waves on the shore. One cannot take the Seventeen Mile Drive day after day to see the wind-twisted cypresses, to come upon the lovely curve of Carmel Bay, and to look down from “the high drive” upon the Bay and town of Monterey far below, for all the world like a Riviera scene. Once more we turn our faces southward and drive through the broad streets of Pacific Grove along the mile of coast road to Monterey, and from Monterey into the country where masses of lupine paint the hills blue on the right, and live oaks dot the green valley stretches on the left. Coming into Salinas Valley we drive through hundreds of acres of level beet fields, south of the town of Salinas. We meet a redheaded, shock-bearded man with his sun-hat tied on, walking alongside a rickety moving-wagon drawn by two poor horses. He responds most cheerfully to our question concerning directions. As we pass his wagon a big family of little children crane their young necks to see us. The mother in their midst, a thin, shabby looking woman, holds up her tiny baby for me to see as I look back, and I wave congratulations in response. Later, near Santa Maria, we pass another moving party eating supper. They are prosperous looking people, very different from the forlorn, toiling little party outside of Salinas. They are comfortably encamped in a grassy spot, and the woman waves to me with a big loaf of bread in one hand and her bread knife in the other. I wave with equal heartiness to her. This is part of the charm of the open road, these salutations and this jolly passing exchange of sympathy, not between two ships that pass in the night, but between two parties who enjoy the air and the open, and who are one in gypsy spirit. It all belongs in the happy day.

Salinas Valley is very different from the lovely valleys which we have thus far seen. Sonoma Valley is a rolling, irregular valley, part grain fields, part rough, hilly pasturage. Napa Valley, narrow at the south, wide toward the north, with orchards and pleasant homes, breathes of order and shut-in prosperity. Santa Clara Valley is a Napa Valley on a grander scale. Its surrounding hills are higher, its spaces are wider. Salinas Valley is a grain-growing valley, its fields of grain stretching away up into the foothills. As we proceed south we observe that the fields encroach more and more upon the hills, their rich greenness running quite far up on the hill slopes. The line of demarcation between the growing grain and the rough pasture slopes is as clean as if drawn by a pencil. It is here in Salinas Valley that we first notice the park-like appearance of many green stretches of field with live oaks growing here and there. It would almost seem that the oaks had been planted with a view to park effects, instead of being part of the original forest which had been cut down to make way for the grain fields. We pass through the little town of Soledad (Solitude) near which are the poor ruins of the Mission of our Lady of Soledad. We judge that Soledad must have a cosmopolitan population when we read such names as Sneible, Tavernetti, and Espinosa on the town’s signs. Here and there we see where the Salinas River has eaten great pieces out of its banks, during the spring freshets. We had seen the same thing in Carmel Valley, where a man lost a large piece of his orchard by its falling bodily into the raging Carmel river. The streams of California are not like the streams of New England, clear and deep with winey brown depths. They are shallow streams with earth banks, but in the time of the spring rains they become wild torrents. Late in the afternoon we pass King City on the opposite bank of the river, glorified by the afternoon sunshine. It looks like a picture town, its buildings taking on castle-like proportions from a distance. We then come over the Jolon Grade, and descend through a little wooded valley that has a particular charm. I do not know its name, but it cast a certain spell that lingers with me. It is a narrow valley with stretches of thick green grass under forest trees, and has a quality of seclusion that I have not felt in the wide acres of grain in the great Salinas Valley. It is as if the forest had been only partly cut away and the advance of the grazier and the grain grower were but partly accomplished.

We come into Jolon, a country crossroads hamlet, past “Dutton’s,” a most comfortable and homelike country hotel, if one may judge by appearances. I am sorry not to stop for the night. I am always attracted to these country inns when they have hospitable porches and a general look of homely comfort. I should be glad, too, to take the six mile detour from the main road in order to see the ruins of the San Antonio Mission. But we have been told that the Mission is in such a ruined state, one of the thick walls having fallen in, that it is as well not to see it.

Our next valley, even lovelier than the others, is Lockwood’s Valley, a beautiful stretch of grain fields. By a bend in the road we are driving east with the western sun setting behind us. High hills form a background for the green fields of oats and barley. The whole valley with its few ranch houses and its great fields breathes a country peace. Looking back, I still regret that we could not have had time to go half a mile off the main road and try the merits of the Lockwood Inn.

But we drive on through the valley over a slight pass and come to an adobe ranch house on the left, sitting modestly back on a slight knoll against a background of bare hills. At the ranch gate is a sign to the effect that this is Aloha Ranch Inn, and that meals can be had at all hours. It is the word Aloha that catches us. Surely someone must live here who knows the lovely Hawaiian Islands with their curving cocoanut palms, and their emerald shores. So we turn into the drive and find a kindly farmer, master of his six hundred acres in this lone valley, who with his wife gives us warm welcome. He does indeed know Hawaii, having lived and worked on the famous Ewa sugar plantation for nearly twenty years. We have a homely but appetizing supper, and a dreamless night’s sleep in one of the farmhouse bedrooms. The next morning is gloriously beautiful, and we drive on our way. In order to avoid fording the Salinas river, which is very high, we make our journey by way of Indian Valley, through hilly, rather lonely country. All along the river there are signs of the devastation made by the unusual spring rains. The river banks are gouged out and the railroad bridges are down, the rails being twisted into fantastic shapes. In passing San Miguel we stop to see the Mission, which is in a fair state of repair and in constant use. One of the beautiful toned old bells of the Mission is hung in a framework outside the church, where the visitor may sound it. The new bell is unfortunately suspended from the top of an immense iron, derrick-like structure which stands outside the church, and is unsightly. The interior of the church is very fine. It is a lofty structure, fifty feet high and one hundred and fifty feet long, its walls covered with frescoes in rich blues and reds, the work of the Indians. There are niches for holy water in the thick old walls and a large niche which was used for the confessional. Above the altar is painted the “All-Seeing Eye.” The heavy rafters of the roof extend through the walls and long wooden pins are fitted through the ends to bind the walls together. Not a nail was used in the entire structure.

We take luncheon at Paso Robles (Pass of the Oaks), famed for its healing waters. The hotel is pleasant and the new bath house with its handsome marble and tiling is very fine. Many sojourn here for the medicinal uses of the waters. Between Paso Robles and San Luis Obispo we come through a stretch of very beautiful country, part open forest land, part richly pastoral, the property of the Atascadero Company. The Atascadero settlement is one of those Utopian plans for happiness and prosperity which bids fair to be realized. The climate is almost ideal, the scenery is charming, the country is richly fertile. They tell us that people are pouring in from the East and that the colony is growing constantly. At the north end of the Atascadero territory we pass a handsome sign swinging over the road, which reads: “Atascadero Colony. North End. Ten Miles Long and Seven Miles wide. Welcome.” As we approach the south end of the ten mile stretch we come upon another sign whose legend is: “Come again.” Turning back as we pass under the sign we see that its reverse legend is the same as that of the north end sign, save that it is for the south end. So whoever passes along the main road through Atascadero property is bound to have the uplifting welcome and to receive, as he passes on, the kindly farewell. We congratulate the Atascadero colonists on the lovely rolling country in whose midst they are to dwell and on the magnificent live oaks that dot their park-like fields. San Luis Obispo is quite a large town, but the Mission of San Luis Obispo has been spoiled by being incorporated into the new church and school plant. One catches only a glimpse of broken cloisters within the school enclosure. I stepped into the church as we drove by in the late afternoon, and saw the children coming in for prayer and for confession. Little stubby-toed boys tip-toed in, kneeling awkwardly but reverently, and crossing themselves with holy water; while from the confessional came the low murmur of some urchin making his confession.

Not long after leaving San Luis Obispo, near Nipomo-by-the-Sea, I had the misfortune to lose my leather letter case. We were horror struck when we found it gone and turned about just before reaching Santa Maria to retrace our steps across the long bridge and then across a wide stretch of dry, sandy river bed. The ravages of the floods had torn a much wider path for the river than it now used, so that for nearly a mile we drove over sandy river bottom, the river being a shrunken stream. To our great joy we met another motor car, and found that the three gentlemen in it had picked up my bag and were bringing it along to Santa Maria in the hope of finding the owner. What had promised to be a long and tiring search, involving the questioning of every passer-by and inquiry at every wayside house for miles, turned out to be only a short drive. We turned toward Santa Maria and went on our way rejoicing.

Santa Maria is a large, prosperous, attractive town. On toward Los Olivos the country is like some parts of New England, attractive but lonely. We are glad to reach in the twilight the hospitable lights of Mattei’s Tavern at Los Olivos. Mr. Mattei is Swiss by birth, but has spent many years in California. He has a ranch whose acres supply his unusually good table with vegetables, poultry, and flowers. His house is kept with the neatness and comfort of an excellent Swiss inn, and is a delightful place for a sojourn. We are sorry to come away on the morning of the first of May. We pass dozens of wagons and buggies, the people all in holiday attire, coming into town for the May-day celebrations. Los Olivos was once an olive growing valley, but grain growing has been found more profitable. We wish to see the Santa Ynez mission and therefore take the route to the right, avoiding the road to Santa Barbara by way of Santa Ynez and the San Marcos Pass. The Santa Ynez Mission has a situation of unusual beauty. It stands on a tableland with a circle of mountains behind it, and at its left a low green valley stretching away into the distance. A Danish settlement of neat new houses of modern type faces the old Mission. The church has been restored, and ten years of loving care have been bestowed upon it by the present priest and his niece. The choice old vestments have been mended with extreme care. The ladies of the Spanish Court are said to have furnished the rich brocades for these vestments, which were sent on from Spain and made up at the Mission. It is an ancient custom for the Indians to wash the handwoven linen vestments, a custom they still observe. The walls of Santa Ynez are about seven feet thick, and the Mission was some thirteen years in building. Roses climb over the cloisters, and the whole Mission is very attractive.

From the Mission we drive over the Gaviota (Seagull) Pass, the mountain road being rough, narrow, and very picturesque. Fine old live oaks and white oaks grow on the rough hillsides. As one approaches the little seaside station of Gaviota the rocks are very grand. Suddenly we come upon the sea, and the blue waters that are part of the charm of Santa Barbara stretch before us. The scenery from Gaviota to Santa Barbara is one of the finest stretches along the entire coast. Three misty islands are to be seen off the coast, set in an azure sea. They belong to the Santa Barbara group; Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, and San Miguel. As one approaches Santa Barbara one sees farmhouses in the midst of lovely farming country on points jutting into the sea and commanding exquisite views of the water. The last ten miles before reaching Santa Barbara we drive through an unbroken stretch of English walnut orchards, the trees carefully pruned and in admirable condition. We have come through the rolling pastures and grain fields of Sonoma Valley, through the fruit orchards of Napa Valley and Santa Clara Valley, through the unbroken grain fields of Salinas Valley and Lockwood’s Valley, and through the diversified cultivation of the valley around Los Olivos; and now we are driving into famous Santa Barbara through ten miles of walnut groves, garden-like in their cultivation.

Reaching Santa Barbara, we have tea at the Studio Tea Room, which utilizes for its purpose a famous old Spanish residence. We then establish ourselves at The Upham, and a very pleasant hotel we find it. For those who wish a larger and more fashionable inn there are the beautiful Arlington Hotel, with its fascinating, tiny models of the historic caravels San Salvador and Vittoria upon the gate posts at its entrance; and the Potter, by the sea. Santa Barbara lies in a pocket valley with the red brown Santa Ynez mountains rising behind it and the sea in front of it. Some of the most beautiful residences are at the north of the town in the foothills. Italian sunshine, Italian softness of climate, the enchanting colors of the hills, the blue of the sea, charming drives and walks, all these are to be had at Santa Barbara; and there is the Mission with its old church and the dignified priests of its brotherhood. Fine trees stand in the beautiful enclosed garden of the Mission, where five thousand Indians are buried.

Four miles south of Santa Barbara are Montecito Valley and the delightful Miramar Hotel on the sea. A very pleasant suburban colony is grouped around the hotel. The hotel itself has within its grounds its own rose-embowered cottages. One may live in a bungalow and have one’s own fireside, one’s own sitting room and bed chamber, one’s own rose-covered porch, one’s own home life, and go into the hotel only for meals and for sociability’s sake. It is an ideal winter life for those who wish all the orderly, luxurious comfort of a well managed inn, together with the privacy of home life in a rose cottage. We drove through lovely little Montecito Valley, catching glimpses of fine houses rising against a picturesque mountain background, some in the Mission style of architecture, some in Italian and some in Spanish style. The lawns of one estate were surrounded by long hedges of pink roses. We turned south through Toro Valley where I recall a most beautiful hillside olive orchard, the trees being planted on the slope sheltered from the sea and facing the mountains. They were as beautiful in their fresh grey-greenness as any olive orchard that we saw in all California. Leaving Miramar we drove on along the coast to Ventura, the road running by the sea and in some places on long platforms built out over the water. At Ventura we turned west and came to Nordhoff, the bridge being down on the Casitas Pass. We had a somewhat lonely evening drive through a green fruited valley from Ventura to Nordhoff, and reached our hostel, the Pierpont Cottages, a few miles from Nordhoff, late in the evening. We were more than ready for supper and for rest in a lovely private cottage, through whose open casement long sprays of pink roses climbed in. The morning revealed to us the rare beauties of the secluded Ojai Valley, in whose foothills stand the Pierpont Inn and cottages, 1000 feet above sea level.

It would be hard to exaggerate the charm and beauty of the Ojai Valley for those who like its type of scenery. A magnificent wall of stone mountain, whose colors run into greys, pinks, lavenders, and yellows, forms the eastern boundary of the valley. On its level floor are luxuriant orchards. Here in warm protection grow the fig, the olive, the orange, and the lemon. The beautiful Matilija poppies grow in great luxuriance here, their tall grey-green stalks and white crape petals with golden hearts being very effective. I had seen the Matilija poppies for the first time growing in the gardens of Santa Barbara. I now saw them growing wild on the slopes of the Ojai Valley foothills. Above the Pierpont Cottages are the buildings of a famous boys’ school high in the foothills. For those who love warmth and glowing color, long tramps and long horseback rides into the mountain defiles above the valley, the Ojai is an ideal place to spend a charmed winter. We came away in the morning light, driving across the valley to the main road and ascending a steep hill to the Upper Ojai road. A glorious view of the whole valley unrolled before us, level as a floor, with its rich masses of fig trees and its shining orange and lemon trees, their green broken here and there by trim houses. Higher up were the cottages of the Pierpont Inn, and higher still the big building of the school, all over-topped by the great masses of the mountains behind. I felt that I should like to build a bungalow on the spot and live and die there.

We come on by a very rough, narrow, bumpy, and precipitous mountain road, past the summer cottages of Sulphur Springs into the Santa Paula Valley. We pass people planting young orchards of lemons and oranges, and we come through defiles, the bare, rugged hills rising above us on both sides. Sometimes these hills are clay-colored. Sometimes they are painted a delicate lavender by whole hillsides of blooming sage; sometimes sage not yet in bloom covers the hills with a delicate grey-green mantle. Other hillsides are a bright yellow from a yellow, string-like plant that nets itself in great masses over the entire slope. On the whole the country until we reach Santa Paula is rather bare. At Santa Paula there is a very pleasant inn. It was at Santa Paula that I saw a schoolhouse enclosure surrounded by a hedge-like row of trees, every tree a blooming mass of glorious yellow.

At Sespe we passed a very prosperous lemon and orange orchard of immense size where they were planting fresh orchards of slender young trees. Before we reached Saugus we had to ford the Santa Clara River, the bridge being down. We stuck in the soft sand in mid-river and T. was obliged to wade through the shallow water to the shore behind us, which happened to be nearest, to go in search of a countryman and horses. In the meantime I took off my boots and stockings and waded across to the far side of the stream. There I was just lacing my boots when a young gentleman appeared driving a small car. He debated as to the risk of driving across stream, but decided to try it. Driving slowly he succeeded in getting through and turned to wave his hat in triumph. I waved back and he pushed on his way. Soon T. appeared with a countryman driving two stout horses. They quickly pulled the car across and their master received a dollar for his services.

After an indifferent lunch at the Saugus railway station we went on over the fine Newhall grade, through Fernando and the great San Fernando Valley, through the brand new town of Van Nuys, and the settlement of Lankershim and the handsome suburb of Hollywood into Los Angeles. The San Fernando Valley, a wide plain with mountains in the far distance, has been turned by the magic of water from a vast, scrubby desert into a fruitful region, rapidly becoming populous. The San Fernando Mission Company has placed in front of the old San Fernando Mission on the broad highway which now runs past the Mission a charming flower garden. The bright flowers blaze out in the afternoon sun against a background of fragments of grey adobe wall. The Mission itself has but little to show. A caretaker lives in the fragment of the old monastery and shows one through the few deserted and dingy rooms. The finest thing in San Fernando Valley is the new boulevard which sweeps through the valley to Los Angeles and is known as the $500,000 boulevard. It is largely due to the generalship of Mr. Whitely, who is a Napoleon of real estate. Through the middle of the boulevard runs the electric car line. On each side of the car line is a border of rose bushes of different varieties. Outside of this border are two fine roads, one on either side; and again outside of these roads is a wonderful border planted in the following order: first, a line of rose bushes, and second, a line of Indian deodars, first cousins to the Lebanon cedars, these deodars alternating in their planting with a flowering shrub; third, comes a line of Austrian and other varieties of pines; fourth, is planted a row of palm trees. At present this planting is in its early stages, but when roses, shrubs, and evergreens are larger, as they will soon be under the bright California sun, the effect will be very rich and beautiful. Van Nuys has a fine new schoolhouse, and shining new dwellings of white glazed brick, built in the Italian and the Spanish style.

California specializes in schoolhouses and street lamps. In the newest and in some instances in the most isolated settlements, you will find beautiful schoolhouses, an earnest of the children and the education that are to be; and all over California in country villages one finds the main streets lined with ornate lamp standards surmounted by handsome globes. They give an air even to sordid little streets lined by saloons, country groceries, and dry-goods emporiums.

California is not afraid to spend money for education. Her school buildings, many of them in the Mission style, would make Eastern towns of the same size gasp with amazement.

Hollywood with its lovely villas is a popular and beautiful suburb of Los Angeles, and seems almost like a second Los Angeles save that it is among the hills instead of on the plain.