I treasure a small round lacquer box that he bought for me once from a Chinese peddler who had walked the dusty miles from Los Angeles, balancing on a pole over his shoulder the two large covered bamboo baskets, so familiar to the early Californian. The whole family gathered, while on the shady porch were spread the wonders of China.
There were nests of lacquer boxes, with graceful sprays of curious design in a dull gold; bread boats, black outside and vermillion within; Canton china, with pink and green people, flowers and butterflies; teapots in basket cosies, covered cups without handles; chop-sticks and back-scratchers and carved card-cases, all in ivory; feather fans with ivory or sandal wood carved sticks; toys, such as a dozen eggs in decreasing size packed one within another, tiny tortoises with quivering heads and legs in glass topped green boxes, or perplexing pieces of wood cut into such strange shapes that it took much skill and time to replace the blocks if once disturbed; there was exquisite embroidery, shawls, or silk handkerchiefs, sometimes there was one of the queer hanging baskets of flowers and fruit fashioned from feathers, silk and tinsel, that so delighted the Chinese themselves but which the housewives rather dreaded receiving as New Year gifts from devoted servants; to top off there was always the strange candy, ginger and lichee nuts. How could so many things come out of those baskets!
If the Chinaman was an essential part of the housekeeping, the Mexican was an integral part of the ranch proper. When Mr. Temple lived at the Cerritos he had great numbers of humble retainers who lived for the most part in huts or jacals of tule or willow brush; some of the more favored ones stayed in the wings facing the patio and others occupied the older Cota house that stood near the river.
My cousin, George, who lived at the ranch all his boyhood, once wrote of these people: “The men of these families had been accustomed to work occasionally as vaqueros in the service of the rancho. There was always plenty of meat; and frijoles and chili, with mais del pais were to be raised under crude forms of cultivation at the foot of the hill. On account of the death by starvation of the cattle on the over-stocked ranges the occupation of these people was gone and they soon vanished seeking fields of usefulness elsewhere....
“Among the Temple retainers, however, was one strong and stalwart character, the most perfect horseman and acknowledged leader of the vaqueros, Juan Cañedo. He was manifestly attached to the land by strong ties of sentiment, and set up the claim that Mr. Temple had sold him with the ranch to Mr. Bixby, with whom he intended to stay.... This man was expert in the use of the reata—the left hand as well as the right—and was easily superior to any of those now exhibiting in the wild west shows. For those days this sort of thing was the life of the people, not their pastime, and this was a picked man among them.”
George knew and loved Old Juan as long as he lived, provided for his old age, stayed with him when he died, and for many years paid monthly the widow’s grocery bill.
When the little boy was four his father had a saddle made especially for him and Juan delighted to show him how to ride, to make a horseman of him; he also served as a teacher of Spanish. Juan never condescended to speak English, although he understood it, so my conversations with him were one sided, for I regret to say that my knowledge of Spanish was very meager.
He looked like a bronze statue, brown face, brown clothes, brown horse and infinite repose. Many a time have I seen him ride out of the courtyard gate followed by the hounds, Duke, Queen, Timerosa, and others of forgotten name, to hunt coyotes, the constant menace to the sheep.
There were many other interesting men who worked at the ranches. There was always a Jose; I remember a romantic looking Romulo, and Miguel, who is now spending his last days a tenant of the old house. Over at Alamitos there was a jolly, fat vaquero with a heavy black beard and twinkling eyes, who was known as “Deefy”—I spell phonetically,—because scarlet fever at twelve had stolen his hearing. He remembered enough of language to speak, but did so in the most uncanny, guttural and squeaking sounds. He was a friendly soul and never so appalling as dignified Old Juan.
Then there were all sorts of other nationalities represented in one way or another; Parlin, a Maine man, always predicting disaster, and speaking only in a whisper; Roy, the Englishman, John “Portugee,” Henry and Charlie, young Americans getting a start, and the merry Irish John O’Connor who always had time for a joke with the children, and whose departure was mourned when he left the Cerritos to open a saloon on Commercial street in Los Angeles.