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at least a like amount."

Add to this estimate the amount taken out of the San Fernando
placers from 1841 to 1847, and from these places and all the other mines
except the San Gabriel from 1855 down to the present time, and the
yield of the Los Angeles placer mines would reach if not exceed five
million dollars.

Our mineral resources are far from being exhausted. With abundant
capital, improved appliances and cheaper methods of working them,
our quartz lodes and gold placers will yield richer returns in the future
than they have in the past. It may seem a rash statement to make —
that the average yield of gold to each man engaged in the Los Angeles
placers equaled if it did not exceed the average yield per man of the
northern mines at the very acme of placer mining — yet the truth of it
can be substantiated. Careful statisticians estimate that in 1853, the year
of the greatest production of the northern placers, the average yield per
man for those actually engaged in mining wss less than $2.00 per day;
the average yield per man of the Los Angeles placers in 1858, '59, '60,
'61, and '62 greatly exceeded that amount.

Such in brief is the history of fifty years of placer mining in Los
Angeles. It is not the story of the treasure vaults of nature unlocked
by the blow of a pick, nor is it a tale of disaster and loss. It is, rather,
the record of fair remuneration for the labor expended and the capital
employed. ^ >

Los Angeles. Cal.


The End of a Feud.


OMETHING of the bloodshed and heartache would have
been spared if John Sterling, when he purchased the
Santa Ynez rancho, had taken his lawyer's advice and
placed his boundary line five feet further to the north,
instead of adopting the original line. But John Sterling
was from the mountains of Tennessee and, having never
yielded an inch to anyone in his life, was not inclined to
give up his five feet of good land, all along the length of
his southern boundary, to his neighbor of the Blessed Innocents. So the
dispute went on as it had gone from the beginning, when the north
boundary line of the Sepulveda grant had been discovered to be five feet
further north than the south boundary of the Guzman estate.

There have been many more famous battlefields, but never one more
hotly contested than that five feet of California soil valueless in itself.
Mario Sepulveda, three of his sons and two of his grandsons had lost
their lives in the quarrel, and Juan Guzman and four of his nephews
balanced the debt. Thus when the widow of the last Guzman, bitter with
grief and poverty, had sold Santa Ynez to the American it was generally
understood that the ancient quarrel was part of the bargain.

Five years went by peacefully enough. Although no friendly inter-
course had been established between the two houses, still there was no
open enmity. The American improved his land by modern methodsi
until it was the finest in the country. But as Santa Ynez progressed,
the Blessed Innocents retrograded. Don Juan Sepulveda noticed this
and it rankled in his breast. Finally one day he and Sterling met in the
streets of Los Angeles. In a trivial dispute the old quarrel was brought
to light. High words followed, and they shot one another to death. It
made a sensational story for the newspapers, then died out of the public

There were two people, however, to whom the tragedy must seem
ever fresh and new. One was Cyril Sterling who was now sole owner of
Santa Ynez ; the other Catalina, Senor Sepulveda's daughter, who was
doubly orphaned — as her mother had died of grief shortly after the hus-
band's death. One would think that a bond of sympathy might exist be-
tween these two, but in their one accidental meeting, shortly after the
Senora's death, such a fire of anger and hatred had burned in Catalina's
eyes that the young man had been deterred from any further attempts
at friendliness. He had done her many favors in a quiet way, and one
particularly hard year had secretly bought half of the crops of the
Blessed Innocents, himself.

It was of Catalina that Sterling was thinking, as he rode slowly along
the narrow white trail which wound through his domain like a dusky
serpent. It had been a busy day, for it was the lemon-packing season,
and his trees had been well laden. He wondered how his neighbor was
progressing, and thought with a sigh of irritation of the incompetent


manager who he well knew robbed his mistress to benefit himself.
He did not like to think of the girl's desolate condition. With none but
servants to advise, it was small wonder that day by day the grape-vines
grew more wild and tangled and the trees died.

His eyes wandered idly over the surrounding country. As far as he
could see, stretched the joint lands of Santa Ynez and the Blessed Inno-
cents to where the dark wall of mountains rose abruptly. Mile after
mile of vineyard, orchard and waving grain. It seemed a pity that with
all its vastness men should lose their lives over a paltry five feet of land
and darken its beauty with a stain of blood. What an estate it would be
if joined. The young man laughed grimly, as he looked across to where
the clump of drooping pepper trees hid the gray adobe of Catalina's

A sudden whining attracted his attention, and he saw in the road be-
fore him a young collie dog that seemed to be in some distress. Alighting
from his ihorse Sterling discovered that the animal had been in a trap,
and that both its feet were injured. He knew it for a pet of the Senorita
Sepulveda. Lifting the dog tenderly he placed it before him in the
saddle, and turning his horse's head, galloped through the gathering
twilight in the direction of the Blessed Innocents.

Catalina stood in the doorway watching the sunset. Sullen clouds
were lowering over the mountains and a crimson band of light stretched
across the west, threw a lurid glow on the girl's figure, and warmed the
cold gray walls behind her into faint life. Every night for three years
she had stood there, watching the sky with her sombre eyes, and think-
ing of the night when horsemen had ridden wildly through the sunset
gleam bearing the tidings of her father's violent end. The sky had
glowed and paled in varied hues from the clear gold of August to the
gorgeous reds and purples of December. On this night the wind blew
cold and wrapped her black gown closely around her figure, as it had
that other night, and — yes, there was a horseman riding up the avenue
of palms. Her face paled, then changed to a haughty frown as she
recognized the man she was pleased to call her enemy.

Sterling rode close to the door step, bowing courteously, " I ran across
the dog in a bad fix," he said, ignoring her unfriendly attitude, " and
recognized it as yours, so I brought him home."

"I am greatly obliged to you," she said coldly, taking the dog in her

The young man hesitated, shifting in his saddle uneasily. "I wish you
would let me be your friend," he said impetuously, " what is the use of
letting this thing drag on forever? "

"You forget yourself" she answered slowly, "yourself and your friend-
ship are hateful to me."

Sterling flushed darkly, and, touching his horse with the spur, galloped
away. For weeks afterward he was ill-tempered, and haunted by the
vision of Catalina as she had stood, the dog's head on her breast, and her
lips curled scornfully.

He thought so much about it, that it grew to be a habit. It was worse


than folly, he told himself, but he watched her when she rode and at
times contrived to meet her. She never seemed to notice him, but he
thought he detected a slight uneasiness in her demeanor. Finally he
ventured to speak. It was a hot June day, and he had met her going
toward town. Things had gone wrong for some time and he felt impa-
tient. It was not his nature to wait. He rode close to her and laid his
hand on her horse's bridle. "I have something to say to you," he
said " will you not listen ? "

"You can have nothing to say, that is welcome," she returned bit-
terly. " Let me pass."

"No, I will not," he broke out passionately "lam tired of this
wretched quarrel. I love you, Catalina, and by God you shall love me, if
all your grandfathers rise - in their graves. Do you hear me, I love you ? "

She looked at him a moment in helpless rage. Her eyes glowed, and
her lips parted in a cruel smile. For one moment they gazed at one
another silently, then the girl raised her riding whip. "Shameless ! " she
said slowly " I despise you ! " and struck him full in the face. The next
instant she was gone, and nothing but a cloud of dust remained to re-
mind Sterling of his folly — a cloud of dust, and a shameful tingling on
his cheek.

The days went by slowly to the Sefiorita Sepulveda. Occupy herself
as she would, the American's words rung in her ears, "I love you ! I love
you ! ' ' She thought with a shudder of how stern his eyes had looked
when she dealt that cruel blow. They were grey she remembered, and a
moment before had been so tender. She caught herself thinking of the
way the dark hair parted on his forehead, of his erect figure and graceful
seat in the saddle, and for the first time in her life she doubted herself,
and was miserable with a new pain.

She dared not inquire how much she had hurt him, though she wan-
dered restlessly over the ranch hoping yet fearing to see him. Finally
her trouble grew unendurable and she dispatched a letter of apology,
waiting anxiously for a reply, but all in vain. She felt she had sinned
beyond all forgiveness.

It was strange that it should make a difference in her life, but it did.
A great many things grew plain to her in the long summer days. Some-
how her pride felt shaken, and her self reliance gone. She did not de-
spise her enemy, she told herself desperately. The very foundations of
the earth seemed giving way. She refreshed her memory in the history
of the feud, she thought of how her father had looked when they laid
him cold and lifeless at her feet. Of how the bullet that had pierced his
heart had as surely pierced her mother's. It was true that Cyril Sterling
had suffered the same loss, but because he had chosen to forget, should
she? Yet her attempts were fruitless. Instead of remembering her
wrongs, she could only think of his. She had struck him a blow she
would have shuddered to give ahorse or dog — and he had done her many

The September moon hung low in the violet sky, as Catalina crouched
low at her window, thinking over these things for the hundredth time.


The cool night air was heavy with the sceut of roses and the aromatic
tang of the cypress hedges. There is a subtle charm about the moon-
light of Southern California, which imparts a dreamy spell, and fills the
brain with a sweet madness and wild desire. The longer Catalina gazed
on it, the more she felt its strange influence. All her tales of bloodshed,
all the memories of the ancient quarrel which had descended to her as a
birthright fled into the background, and she was filled with an uncon-
trollable desire to look upon the face of the man she had wronged.

Throwing a scarf over her head she stole softly to the corral and
slipped the saddle on her horse. It was nine o'clock, and the servants
were all asleep. She looked back once, then in another moment was
riding swiftly down the road.

Cyril Sterling sat on his veranda moodily smoking, and contemplating
an early departure for the East. He was tired of Santa Ynez, tired of
California, and the beauty of the night had no charm for him. He did
not hear a light step on the walk nor notice the approach of a darkly
robed figure until it stood before him at the bottom of the steps. With
a start he recognized Catalina.

Her face showed pale in the moonlight under her lace mantilla, her
eyes soft, and her lips tremulous.

" I came," she said gently, "I came to ask your forgiveness, I — " she
could get no farther, her limbs refused to support her, and she sank to
her knees and stretched out her arms.

Sterling sprang to her side and lifted her in a close embrace. " There
is but one solace, one reparation you can give me," he said, "Catalina,
Catalina, will you do it ? "

Her hair, loosed from its comb, swept his shoulder in dusky waves.
She looked into his eyes, hesitated, then touched her lips to the faint
scar on his cheek. "Yes," she whispered, and his wound was healed.

Could the dead and gone Sepulvedas have seen the two figures which
crossed the much-disputed boundary line that night, they would have
risen from their graves in horror . But the only ' ' Blessed Innocents ' '
which afterward existed were the children of Cyril and Catalina, who
knew not where the estate of their mother ended and that of their father
began; and the legend over the iron gates which guarded Cyril Sterling's
home read " Rancho de la Santa Catalina."

So in the obliteration of the ancient names, the feud was forever ended.

los Angeles. Cal.

The Musky Filaree."*


With Memory kind how often do I turn

To those wide fields, those stretches warm and fair,
Those marvelous vistas through the tremulous air,

On wild Kaweah and the sandy Kern !

There in the Spring the fields and hollows burn

With splendid sheen — the hues the wild flowers wear-
And spread with royal largess everywhere

The " filaree." When at the eve you spurn

Its cool and clovery sward, a scent of musk
Rises above you in the stilly dusk.

If from a life of sacrifice and pain

Such incense pure might rise, less would I pray
For scenes and pleasures of a dear lost day —

For loved Kaweah and the flowery plain.


An Open Letter.

The Bungalow, April, 1896.

Dear " Land of Sunshine : " For a whole week I've been dreaming
of yon. Today, sitting at my desk by an open window in the library, I
look down upon one of those pretty triangular slices of park that are
scattered all over Washington and are constantly met with wherever
the bnsiness cut bias lines across the plan of the city. This one seems to
belong to me because between it and the Bungalow grounds there is only
a narrow foot-path known hereabout as Lovers' Lane.

Perhaps this makes me think of you.

There is a fountain over yonder in the parklet, a fountain that plays
all day — it plays even on the Sabbath day — and sprays the pink petals
of the water-lilies in their season, and makes a low, glad song in the
night. Every hour all the leaves are growing larger and larger, and as
the Bungalow stands jn a small grove of big trees, very soon it will be
thrown into the shade.

This is why I have been thinking of you, O Land of Sunshine ! —
of you, and the last long vacation I spent on your coast.

Now, when the hot hours come, I retire into my study-window — a
double one that laps around the corner of the room and opens south and
east among the branches of a wide-spreading catalpa tree with leaves as
large as parasols. That corner of the library is like a bird's nest with
all its modern improvements ; and the boughs that hedge it in are alive
with jolly sparrows.

I say this is why I have been thinking of you and your environment ;
especially of Fresno, and most of all of a certain vineyard within an
easy drive of Fresno-town, one that in my eyes is the fairest of the fair
in all that vine land.

On such days as these we lounged within doors, the windows fast, the
shutters closed, the curtains drawn. The mercury was far and away
above a hundred in the valley, and a stranger might naturally think that
we were baking as in an oven — but we were not ; a temperate twilight
prevailed throughout the house. Sometimes music beguiled us, or we
chatted in low voices, or supped claret-cup, or wandered apart and in-
vited the siesta.

What restful hours for those who could pass them within doors ; what
busy ones for the toilers in the vineyards — and for the vines, also ; one
could almost see the grapes blowing themselves up like bubbles and
waxing fat from day to day.

Oh me ! the amazing fecundity of that land of sunshine ! Surely the
sun loves it with all his fiery heart. When the slim shadows swept
lengthwise through the garden of an afterDOon and doors and windows
were at last thrown wide open, we stepped forth to be greeted by the
zephyr with a most passionate kiss ; its breath for a moment was like a
furnace blast — and yet one does not suffer there in flaming Fresno as
one does in the enervating Washington summer.

Do you know the very spot I have in mind —the Forsyth vineyard ?


Young Donald is my godson, and it is the godfather's pleasing privilege
to lean upon his godson at dutiful intervals ; so it came to pass that for
days and days, brief, glorious days, I lounged there devoting myself to
the golden-haired darling ; and for many a night I slept in a cool cham-
ber with windows opening upon palm-vistas that awakened dreams of
islands in the tropic seas.

There were morning drives down long avenues of poplars that carried
one back to the plains of Lombardy and the south of France ; drives
following wide water-ways that were as hints of Holland ; and once we
visited a wine-cellar that looked for all the world like a monastery in the
wilds of Spain — and smelt like one.

A resplendent sunset we witnessed from the high verandah of a
neighboring planter's house, and everywhere we tasted of the cup of
kindness as freely offered by rival vintagers.

Often at sunset a hot mist was in the air, a mist as dry as dust, and
with it was poured a blood-red flood that filtered through it and flowed
down to us as purple as the purple wine itself.

And there were such stars for a midsummer night, so fine, so sparkling,
darting their rays through space as if something had struck and splin-
tered them ; they are not the melting, bedewed stars of the lower lati-
tudes ; they are resplendent, crystaline, worthy to deck the brow of

What hour was the hour of hours among the vines in Fresno ? I think
it was just after sundown, when the first cool, refreshing whisper came
to us out of the sky ; when we strolled down a brook-margined path to
the lake-side where the trees girdled the shore ; there my lord sat upon
the bank and made his smoke-offering at the close of day, with a full
heart, a quiet conscience and a contented mind; there his lady, seated
amidship, plied the deft oar delicately among aquatic gardens where the
stately lotus lifted its splendid crest and huge water-drops studded the
lily-pads like strewn opals.

There the cherub in the prow of the skiff challenged the swans to
swim the course with us, and there in the stern sat I, the exile, home
in the land of sunshine on furlow ; wherefore I struck hands with the
artist-chum who was diligently noting all this on canvas — noting it as
being something peculiarly Californian, namely — yours truly, basking
in the radiance of my lord, my lady, the lotus, and the kid, at twilight,
under a blue-bell sky, in the ripe end of August, among the vinelands
and the fruitlands of fair Fresno.

Washington, D. C. Charles Warren Stoddard.

• Longing.


O, wind from o'er the sea !
From days that used to be,
Blow back my dream to me.

O, sea-gull ! floating free
Over the great, wide sea,
Seek, seek my dream for me.

'Twas not a merry dream ;
You'll know it by its grace,
And by the tears which seem
A veil before its face.

Avalon, Catalina Island, Cal.


My Nursery.


My wee ones have a nursery wide ;

The ceiling's blue as Marjorie's eyes,

And all the fluttering draperies

With buds and flowers are thickly pied.

The carpet's changed full twice a

year ;
Sometimes it is a russet brown,
Then there are soft green rugs laid

And later, for the childrens' cheer,

Their nursery floor is covered close
With marvelous webs of rainbow bloom.
O happy bairns with such a room,
Their light feet treading rose on rose !

Playthings they have, not such as were
Our treasures in the days gone by,
For Juliet has a butterfly
And Don a bird and grasshopper.

My wee ones have the sweetest nurse,
She keeps their room so bright and warm,
She has so many ways to charm,
Such songs and stories to rehearse.

She is the same is wont to rock
The oriole's cradle, and keep guard
O'er many a furred and feathered ward
My babes are Nature's foster-flock.

Rollicking, rosy, plump and tanned,
Taking all good the sky outpours —
Their nursery is " all outdoors."
My babies' home is Sunshine Land.

•uill t


President, Chas. F. Lummis.
Vice-President, Margaret Collier Graham.
Secretary. Arthur B. Benton, 114 H. Spring St.
Treasurer, Frank A. Gibson, Cashier 1st Nat. Bank.
Corresponding Secretary, Mrs M E. Stilson.

913 Kensington Road, Los Angeles.

Frank A Gib«on.
Henry W O'Melveny.
Rev. .1. Adam.
Sumner P. Hunt.
Arthur B Benton.
Margaret Collier Graha
Chas. F. Lummis.

ADVISORY BOARD: Jessie Benton Fremont, Col. H. G. Otis, R Egan, W. C. Patterson, Adeline
Stearns Wine, Geo. H. Bonebrake, Tessa L Kelso, Don Marcos Forster, Chas Cassat Davis, Miss M. F. Wills,
C D. Willard, John F. Francis Frank J. Polley Rev. Wm J. Chichester, Elmer Wachtel, Maj. H. T. Lee,
Rt Rev. Joseph H Johnson, Bishop of Los Angeles.
J. T. Bertrand, Official Photographer

The ruins of the great stone church at the Mission San Juan Capistrano are now
saved. Of the original seven domes, only two were left ; and these were threatened by
the crumbling of a column. A new foundation has been put under this column ; the
cracks are " pointed," and the broken capitals are anchored. The opposite column has
also been repaired.

The directors of the Landmarks Club are now engaged in raising the $500 it will
cost to repair the tile roof of the big adobe church founded in 1776 by Junipero Serra
himself, and to waterproof the roofs already repaired on 400 feet of cloisters. This
work must be done before fall, and will practically complete the present work at San
Juan. That is, it will leave every principal building of this Mission in shape to weather
another century, and will enable the Club to undertake the preservation of the next
Mission on its list.

The Club has entered a vigorous protest before the Lds Angeles City Council against
a movement to obliterate the historic names of many streets in the northern p'art of the
city, and will follow up the fight if necessary.

The Club gave its first excursion on the 13th inst.. when about fifty members and
invited guests visited the Mission San Juan Capistrano. Judge Egan, Father O'Keefe
and Don Marco Forster met the party at' the station and conducted it to the Mission,
where all arrangements had been made for its entertainment. Luncheon was spread
in one of the cloisters recently reroofed by the Club, the contents of the lunch baskets
being, by the kindness of Judge Egan, supplemented by a liberal supply of tamales,
frijoles and tortillas, cooked in the Mission kitchen, which '
eration previous to its restoration by the Club.

In the absence of President Lummis, Mrs. Margaret Graham presided most
graciously. The toast of the occasion was Judge R. Egan, proposed by Mr. Frank Gibson,
in recognition of his invaluable services to the Club in its work at Capistrano.

During the day the Mission was thoroughly inspected, even the ancient vestments
of the chapel being displayed by the Fathers to the admiration of the ladies; and the
work of the Club explained by the architects in charge.

The residences of Judge Egan and Don Marco Forster were thrown open and a
charming hospitality dispensed.

It is the purpose of the Club to give excursions from time to time, that all interested
may have opportunity of visiting the landmarks it is seeking to preserve.


Previously acknowledged : Cash, $627.50 : services and material, $412 ; total, $1039.50.

New contributions, cash : Margaret Collier Graham, $25 ; Miss Collier, $25, both of
Pasadena ; the original Association for the Preservation of the Missions, by Tessa L.
Kelso, $90.

$1 each : Rev. P. Grogan ; Wm. E. Dunn, City Attorney of Los Angeles : Miss
Elizabeth D. Palmer. H. A. Palmer, Col. J. O. Wheeler ; Helen T. Sumner, Claremont ;
Dr. Alfred J. Malloy, Dr. Sarah E. Mallov, Riverside ; Miss Alice Hussey, San Francisco ;
Geo. S. Wright, Miss A. E. Wadleigh, Mrs. M. J. Frick, W. H. Housh, Miss Alma S.
Brigham, Los Angeles.

Online LibraryArchaeological Institute of America. Southwest SocOut west (Volume 5) → online text (page 8 of 34)