In a letter written to the Detroit Tribune my brother gives his experience of a California winter.
"My impression is that January first was the warmest day of the month. Certainly on no other days was I so conscious of the sun's heat, yet the air was so deliciously cool and fresh in the early morning. There had been a heavy dew, and grass, weed, hedge, and flower were gemmed in the brilliant sunshine.
"Walking up town with my mail at about ten in the morning, I found myself perspiring as upon a hot day in August, but there was no sense of oppression. One was exhilarated rather than wilted. After reaching our cottage piazza and the shelter of the climbing roses and honeysuckle, the change was decidedly marked. This is said to be the peculiarity the year round, even in midsummer. One has only to step out of the sun's rays in order to be cool, and the dead, sultry heat which sometimes induces one to yearn for the depths of a cave is unknown.
"As I sat there in the shade, letting the paper fall from my hand in the deeper interest excited by my immediate surroundings, I could scarcely realize that we were in the depths of winter.
"The air was fragrant from blooming flowers; finches and Audubon's warblers were full of song in the pepper trees, while humming birds were almost as plentiful as bumble-bees in June.
"It was evident that the day was being celebrated in the manner characteristic of the place. One might fancy that half the population were on horseback. In twos and fours they clattered along the adjacent streets, while from more distant thoroughfares, until the sounds were like faint echoes, came also the sounds of horses' feet rapidly striking the hard adobe of the roadways. In addition to those who gave the impression of life and movement in the suburbs of the town, large equestrian parties had started for mountain passes and distant cañons, taking with them hearty lunches in which the strawberries were a leading feature. As long as the sun was well above the horizon delicate girls, almost in summer costume, could sit in the shade of the live-oaks in safety, but when the sun declines to a certain point, between four and five in winter, there is a sudden chill in the air, and those who do not protect themselves by wraps or overcoats are likely to be punished with as severe colds as they would take in a Boston east wind.
"It has often seemed to me warmer at eight o'clock in the evening than at four in the afternoon.
"We resolved to have our holiday outing as well as the others, and after dinner were bowling out on the road to Montecito, the favorite suburb of Santa Barbara. The fields by the roadside were as bare and brown as ours in winter when not covered with snow, but drought, not frost, was the cause. The 'rainy season' was well advanced, but there had been no rain in quantity sufficient to awaken nature from her sleep. In this climate vegetation is always a question of moisture.
"When reaching the villa region of Montecito, blossoming gardens and green lawns illustrated this truth. After a visit to the beautiful grounds and fine residence of Mr. A. L. Anderson, so well remembered by thousands as the captain of the favorite Hudson River steamboat the Mary Powell, we drove on to one of the largest orange groves on this part of the coast. Mr. Johnson, one of the proprietors, received us most hospitably, and led the way into a grove that sloped toward the mountains. The ground was scrupulously free from weeds, mellow as an ash heap, and had evidently been made very fertile. Mr. Johnson told me that he fed the trees constantly and liberally, and this course is in accordance with nature and with reason, for the orange tree never rests. While the fruit is ripening the tree is blossoming for a new crop. Always growing and producing, it requires a constant supply of plant food, and one of the causes of the deep green and vigorous aspect of the grove and its fruitfulness consisted undoubtedly in the richness at the roots.
"Another and leading cause was in abundant supply of water.