WEDNESDAY, MAY 19th.
We are all up bright and early this morning, and after breakfast parties are formed to take in the sights. A number of us have decided to take a tally-ho ride, and Brother Wyman has gone to procure the outfit. In a short time he returns with the information that “the wagon will soon be here.” It is not long until a fine roomy coach, drawn by six white horses, reins up in front of the group, and we clamber in. There is just room enough. We count the party and find there are fourteen, including the driver. The team is from the Panorama Stables and driven by “Mac,” the veteran stager and coachman, who knows every crook and turn in all the highways and byways and drives and trails throughout Southern California. “Mac” is a character; we try to draw him out, but he won’t talk about himself, won’t even tell you his name, only that it is “Mac.” He will tell you about everything else, and he is thoroughly posted. He takes us through the principal streets of this most wonderful city, rightly named “The town of the Queen of Angels.”
Los Angeles lies amongst the foothills of the Sierra Madre Mountains, with an average elevation of 300 feet above sea level, only 15 miles from the coast, with an active, bustling business population of about 75,000 inhabitants. The beauty and magnificence of this tropical profusion through which we are passing is something we have heard of, but never saw before, and we find we are helpless when we attempt to describe it. In fancy and in dreams we have pictured “The Land of Sunshine and Flowers,” but now, brought face to face with this marvelous reality, the beautiful pictures of dreams and fancy pale into crudeness and insignificance. Through avenues shaded on either side by rows of palms, eucalyptus, and pepper trees, past rose-embowered cottages and lawns filled with tropical plants, surrounded by hedges of roses and calla lilies, we continue on our way out through the suburbs into the rural districts, through the avenues of vast orange groves, the trees loaded with luscious golden fruit, through beautiful Pasadena, and on until “Mac” draws up at the famous ostrich farm, where we alight and go in to look around.
We spend about half an hour looking at the birds and two and a half dollars in the purchase of feathers. Loading up, we start on our way again, bound for “Lucky Baldwin’s” ranch, “the largest individual tract of land,” says “Mac,” “in Southern California. It comprises 50,000 acres, nearly all under a condition of cultivation and improvement.” Here it is our pleasure to behold the largest and most wonderful orange grove in the world. For miles we see nothing but orange trees and oranges; the trees are loaded and the ground is covered with the yellow fruit. We feast upon the beauty and grandeur of this unusual sight, with lots of oranges thrown in. It is needless to state that we ate all we could and loaded up the hack.
A few miles further on we arrive at the Bonita Hotel, belonging to the ranch kept by Mrs. Warner, where the horses are taken from the coach and fed and the party takes lunch. Large lawns surround the buildings filled with many varieties of flowers, and we are given the privilege of plucking all we want, and when we leave each lady carries a large bouquet in her hand and each gentleman a smaller one in his buttonhole.
Starting on our way again, the horses refreshed with rest and food, we speed along lengthy drives and avenues, shaded by large Lombardy poplar and eucalyptus trees, for about two miles, when we pass through a large gateway over which is an arch in the form of an immense horse shoe, and enter the stable grounds where Baldwin’s famous blooded horses are kept. We are kindly received by the stableman, shown through the stalls, where a number of the celebrated equines are seen. Brother Layfield evinces such a surprising knowledge of horseflesh and shows so much interest in the history of the different animals as related by the stableman that he is presented by that courteous gentleman with a mule’s shoe as a souvenir of the visit. Brother Kilgore is also interested in the horses and would like to have a shoe; a search for one is unsuccessful, and so long did Brother Kilgore remain in the stable looking for the much-desired relic that he came near being left.
Leaving the stable grounds, we drive a mile further to the palatial residence and magnificent grounds of the renowned ruler of these domains. Mr. Baldwin is not at home at the present time, but the place is in charge of trusted employes. Leaving the coach, we walk through the spacious grounds surrounding the princely mansion. Paradise can hardly be more beautiful and grand—the largest, the sweetest, the reddest roses that ever delighted the sense of sight or smell, the grandest trees, the most beautiful shrubbery bearing flowers of every kind and color. Bordered with blooming lilies are lakes of water, clear as crystal, on the surface of which graceful swans are swimming and in whose depth gold and silver fish dart and dive. Fine fountains and statuary intersperse the lawn, adding to its richness and beauty. Mounted above a pedestal in a conspicuous spot we notice an old bell. It is possessed of no beauty, and we wonder what it is for. We inquire of an old man working near by, “Uncle, what is the old rusty bell for?” “That old bell,” answered the old gentleman, removing his hat with a low bow as he turns toward the object in question, “is the most valued thing you see. It is a relic that money cannot buy. Mr. Baldwin prizes it very highly, and we people all adore it.” As the old servant utters the last words he makes another low courtesy. We begin to think he is a little daft and are about to move on, when, straightening up and with outstretched arm he points toward the old bell a bony, trembling finger, and continues slowly and with emphasis, “That old bell came from the chimes tower of the San Gabriel Mission. That is why we prize it; that is why we love it.” We thought at first the old fellow bowed to us; we know now that he bowed to the old bell out of respect and reverence, for whatever is connected or associated with those old missions is looked upon as something almost sacred by many of the people here, especially those of the Roman faith.
A whistle from “Mac” informs us we must be going,
and climbing into the ’bus the horses start off on a brisk trot and we soon leave “Lucky Baldwin’s” ranch behind and enter “Sunny Slope” vineyard, owned by L. J. Rose. This immense vineyard contains 1500 acres and is traversed by beautiful avenues which divide this vast acreage of grapevines into great squares.
We are soon across this interesting tract and enter the grounds of the vintage plant of the San Gabriel Wine Company. We were very courteously treated and shown through the large establishment, the capacity of which is 1,500,000 gallons of wine per year. Upon leaving we pass through their vineyard, containing 1000 acres, which is near the vintage plant.
As we approach the old San Gabriel Mission and “Mac” reins up his steeds in front of the low, quaint building, I instinctively glance up at the ancient belfry and find that two of the niches or arches where bells once had swung are vacant. “Lucky Baldwin” has one of the bells; I wonder who has the other. At this moment another tally-ho drives up and stops, and we find it is a coaching party of our own people. We all alight and enter the historic and sacred edifice. Those who are of the faith render their acknowledgment with quiet, humble reverence; we who are not stand silently by in an attitude of mute veneration. San Gabriel stands fourth in the line of the twenty-one missions established in California from July 16th, 1769, to April 25th, 1820, the date of its establishment being September 8th, 1771.
The party we encountered consists of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, Mr. and Mrs. Reilly, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews, Mr. Reagan, Mr. McCarty, Mr. Waddington, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Williams, and Mr. Suter. They occupy one of Hoag’s White Livery tally-ho coaches, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Horner in a buggy. Our party consists of Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and Mrs. Kilgore, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Mrs. McKernan, Mr. and Miss Barrett, Mr. Crispen, Mrs. Shaw and myself.
As we bowl along the level drive toward the city, after leaving the old Mission, our conversation turns upon the pleasures of the day and of the interesting and beautiful things we have seen. We are all well pleased with our day’s outing, especially the Colonel, who is in a high good humor, for had he not obtained what no one else could get, a substantial memento of his visit to the famous Baldwin ranch? “I am going to have this shoe decorated with ribbon and hung up in my parlor,” asserts the Colonel, as he searches in the bottom of the coach for his prize. “I guess not,” exclaims Mrs. Shaw, as she gives him a dig in the ribs with her elbow, “that’s my shoe you’ve got hold of.” “But where’s my horse shoe? Has any one got it? Has any one seen my horse shoe?” excitedly inquires the Colonel, as he makes another dive into the bottom of the coach. “I think it flew away,” quietly remarks Mrs. Wyman, as she draws her feet up and out of the way. “Who ever saw a shoe fly,” snaps the Colonel, as he continues rummaging in the bottom of the vehicle. “I have,” answers Manager Wyman, removing his hat, exposing a pate as devoid of hair and as bald as a door knob, from which he brushes an imaginary fly. “I saw a horse fly, but didn’t notice if he had shoes on,” observes Mrs. McKernan, keeping her eye on the Colonel, who is growing desperate in his failure to find
his treasure. But it was gone; it had escaped from the bottom of the coach in some way, and we all sympathize with Brother Layfield in his bereavement, now that we find he has actually lost his valued souvenir.
We enter the city through East Side Park, which is a most beautiful and delightful drive. We bid goodbye to “Mac” and his spanking team and hurry to our dining car, where we arrive just in time for one of McDonald’s dandy dinners, which we heartily enjoy after such a busy day. We find a number of our party had taken trips similar to our own, and over nearly the same route; others had ascended Mt. Lowe, been away above the clouds; some had taken a run down to Santa Monica and sported in the surf of the Pacific; some to Santa Catalina Island, the alleged “Garden of Eden” of the Pacific coast. All express themselves as having had an exceedingly good time and are laying plans for the morrow. There are many places we would like to visit and many things we would like to see, but our time is too limited “to take it all in,” for we are to leave here to-morrow at 2.00 P. M. We have friends in San Diego we had intended to visit and there are fish at Catalina Island we had expected to catch; both friends and fish will have to charge their disappointment or pleasure, as the case may be, to the turbid waters of the Rio Grande.
Dinner being over, the most of our people take a walk up town and enjoy a promenade through the brilliantly-lighted streets, admiring the handsomely-furnished stores, with goods and wares arranged and exposed in so tempting a manner that many trinkets and knicknacks are purchased for souvenirs. Returning to the train at an early hour and hearing such a favorable account of the trip to Mt. Lowe from some who were there to-day, we conclude to join a party that is going in the morning and “take it in.” One by one and two by two our people keep dropping in like unto the oft-mentioned fowls that “come home to roost,” until only a few of the “boys,” as usual, are left outside the fold, and to them I need again ascribe “unwritten history.” As I leave the smoker to retire to my berth in the “Marco” I see our faithful George H. (Alfalfa) Anderson making up his bed, under the pillow of which he carefully places our “artillery,” and I feel we are as safe as though surrounded by a cordon of Gatling guns.