Brushwood looked disgusted, grunted his disapproval, backed his chair out from the table, and as he walked to the door of the dining-room many heard him mutter, "She's a queer dick; don't amount to much, anyway; thought so when I first saw her; impudent, too!"
As the farmer remarked when he first encountered a sportsman dude, "What things a feller does meet when he hasn't got his gun!"
But the train is slowing up, and see, Judge Brown, my old friend of The Anchorage, is looking for us. No! No "Glenwood"; no "Arlington"; no "kerridge"!
CHAPTER IX.
RIVERSIDE.
"Knowest thou the land where the lemon trees bloom,
Where the golden orange grows in the deep thickets' gloom,
Where a wind ever soft from the blue heavens blows,
And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose?"
Yes, that describes Riverside, and reads like a prophecy. If Pasadena is a big garden with pretty homes scattered all through its shade and flowers, then Riverside is an immense orange grove, having one city-like street, with substantial business blocks and excellent stores, two banks, one in the Evans block, especially fine in all its architecture and arrangements, and the rest is devoted by the land-owners to raising oranges and making them pay. You will see flowers enough to overwhelm a Broadway florist, every sort of cereal, every fruit that grows, in prime condition for the table ten months out of the twelve. Three hundred sunny days are claimed here out of the three hundred and sixty-five. They are once in a while bothered by a frost, but that is "unusual." Before 1870 this was a dusty desert of decomposed granite. What has caused the change? Scientific irrigation and plenty of it. Or, as Grant Allen puts it, "mud." He says: "Mud is the most valuable material in the world. It is by mud we live; without it we should die. Mud is filling up the lakes. Mud created Egypt, and mud created Lombardy."
Yes, one can get rich here by turning dust into mud. It is said to be the richest town "per capita" in all California of the same size, $1100 being the average allowance for each person. This is solemnly vouched for by reliable citizens. And they have no destitute poor—a remarkable record. The city and district are said to enjoy an annual income of $1,500,000 from the fruit alone, and there is a million of unused money in the two banks.
Irrigation is better than rain, for the orange growers can turn on a shower or a stream whenever and wherever needed. It requires courage and faith to go straight into a desert with frowning mountains, big, little, and middle-sized, all about, and not an available drop of water, and say, "I'm going to settle right here and turn this desert into a beautiful home, and start a prosperous, wealthy city. All that this rocky, barren plain needs is water and careful cultivation, and I will give it both." That was Judge Brown's decision, and the result shows his wisdom. No one agreed with him; it was declared that colonists could not be induced to try it. But he could not relinquish the idea. He was charmed by the dry, balmy air, so different from Los Angeles. He saw the smooth plain was well adapted for irrigation, and Santa Ana could be made to furnish all the water needed. So that it is really to him we owe the pleasure of seeing these orchards, vineyards, avenues, and homes. Where once the coyote and jack-rabbit had full sway, land now sells at prices from $400 to $3000 per acre. There are no fences—at least, there is but one in all Riverside. You see everywhere fine, well-trimmed cypress hedges with trees occasionally cut in fantastic, elaborate designs. There are many century plants about the grounds; they blossom in this climate after twelve years, and die after the tall homely flower has come to maturity. The roadsides have pretty flowers planted all along, giving a gay look, and the very weeds just now are covered with blossoms. Irrigation is carried on most scientifically, the water coming from a creek and the "cienaga," which I will explain later. There are several handsome avenues shaded with peppers, and hedges twenty feet high, through which are obtained peeps at enchanting homes; but the celebrated drive which all tourists are expected to take is that to and fro through Magnolia Avenue, twelve miles long. The name now seems illy chosen, as only a few magnolia trees were originally planted at each corner, and these have mostly died, so that the whole effect is more eucalyptical, palmy, and pepperaneous than it is magnolious. People come here "by chance the usual way," and buy because they see the chance to make money. You are told pretty big stories of successes; the failures are not alluded to.