My friend [Footnote: Horace Davis] has a novel retreat. He is fond of nature as manifested in the growth of trees and plants, and some seventeen years ago he bought a few acres, mostly of woods, in the Santa Cruz Mountains. There was a small orchard, a few acres of hillside hayfield, and a little good land where garden things would grow.

There was, too, a somewhat eccentric house where a man who was trying to be theosophical had lived and communed with his mystified soul. To foster the process he had more or less blue gla.s.s and a window of Gothic form in the peak of his rambling house. In his living-room a round window, with Sanskrit characters, let in a doubtful gleam from another room. In the side-hill a supposedly fireproof vault had been built to hold the ma.n.u.script that held his precious thoughts. In the gulch he had a sacred spot, where, under the majestic redwoods, he retired to write, and in a small building he had a small printing-press, from which the world was to have been led to the light. But there was some failure of connection, and stern necessity compelled the surrender of these high hopes. My friend took over the plant, and the reformer reformed and went off to earn his daily bread.

His memory is kept alive by the name Mahatma, given to the gulch, and the blue gla.s.s has what effect it may on a neighbor's vegetables. The little house was made habitable. The home of the press was comfortably ceiled and made into a guest-chamber, and apples and potatoes are stored in the fireproof vault. The acres were fairly covered with a second growth of redwood and a wealth of madronos and other native trees; but there were many s.p.a.ces where Nature invited a.s.sistance, and my friend every year has planted trees of many kinds from many climes, until he has an arboretum hardly equaled anywhere. There are pines in endless variety--from the Sierra and from the seash.o.r.e, from New England, France, Norway, and j.a.pan. There flourish the cedar, spruce, hemlock, oak, beech, birch, and maple. There in peace and plenty are the sequoia, the bamboo, and the deodar. Eucalypts pierce the sky and j.a.panese dwarfs hug the ground.

These children of the woodland vary in age from six months to sixteen years, and each has its interest and tells its story of struggle, with results of success or failure, as conditions determine. At the entrance to the grounds an incense-cedar on one side and an arbor-vitae on the other stand dignified guard. The acres have been added to until about sixty are covered with growing trees. Around the house, which wisteria has almost covered, is a garden in which roses predominate, but hollyhocks, coreopsis, and other flowers not demanding constant care grow in luxuriance. There is abundance of water, and filtered sunshine gives a delightful temperature. The thermometer on the vine-clad porch runs up to 80 in the daytime and in the night drops down to 40.

A sympathetic Italian lives not far away, keeping a good cow, raising amazingly good vegetables, gathering the apples and other fruit, and caring for the place. The house is unoccupied except during the five days each month when my friend restores himself, mentally and physically, by rest and quiet contemplation and observation. He takes with him a faithful servitor, whose old age is made happy by these periodical sojourns, and the simple life is enjoyed to the full.

Into this Resthaven it was my happy privilege to spend five-sevenths of a week of August, and the rare privilege of being obliged to do nothing was a great delight. Early rising was permissible, but not encouraged.

At eight o'clock a rich Hibernian voice was heard to say, "Hot water, Mr. Murdock," and it was so. A simple breakfast, meatless, but including the best of coffee and apricots, tree-ripened and fresh, was enjoyed at leisure undisturbed by thought of awaiting labor. Following the pleasant breakfast chat was a forenoon of converse with my friend or a friendly book or magazine, broken by a stroll through some part of the wood and introduction to the hospitably entertained trees from distant parts. My friend is something of a botanist, and was able to p.r.o.nounce the court names of all his visitors. Wild flowers still persist, and among others was pointed out one which was unknown to the world till he chanced to find it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: OUTINGS IN THE SIERRAS, 1910 IN HAWAII, 1914]

Very interesting is the fact that the flora of the region, which is a thousand feet above sea-level, has many of the characteristics of beach vicinity, and the reason is disclosed by the outcropping at various points of a deposit of white sand, very fine, and showing under the microscope the smoothly rounded form that tells of the rolling waves.

This deposit is said to be traceable for two hundred miles easterly, and where it has been eroded by the streams of today enormous trees have grown on the deposited soil. The mind is lost in conjecture of the time that must have elapsed since an ancient sea wore to infinitesimal bits the quartz that some rushing stream had brought from its native mountains.

Another interesting feature of the landscape was the clearly marked course of the old "Indian trail," known to the earliest settlers, which followed through this region from the coast at Santa Cruz to the Santa Clara Valley. It followed the most accessible ridges and showed elemental surveying of a high order. Along its line are still found bits of rusted iron, with specks of silver, relics of the spurs and bridles of the caballeros of the early days.

The maples that sheltered the house are thinned out, that the sun may not be excluded, and until its glare becomes too radiant the steamer-chair or the rocker seeks the open that the genial page of "Susan's Escort, and Others," one of the inimitable books of Edward Everett Hale, may be enjoyed in comfort. When midday comes the denser shade of tree or porch is sought, and coats come off. At noon dinner is welcome, and proves that the high cost of living is largely a conventional requirement. It may be beans or a bit of roast ham brought from home, with potatoes or tomatoes, good bread and b.u.t.ter, and a dessert of toasted crackers with loganberries and cream. To experience the comfort of not eating too much and to find how little can be satisfying is a great lesson in the art of living. To supplement, and dispose of, this homily on food, our supper was always baked potatoes and cream toast,--but such potatoes and real cream toast! Of course, fruit was always "on tap," and the good coffee reappeared.

In the cool of the afternoon a longer walk. Good trails lead over the whole place, and sometimes we would go afield and call on some neighbor.

Almost invariably they were Italians, who were thriving where improvident Americans had given up in despair. Always my friend found friendly welcome. This one he had helped out of a trouble with a refractory pump, that one he had befriended in some other way. All were glad to see him, and wished him well. What a poor investment it is to quarrel with a neighbor!

Sometimes my friend would busy himself by leading water to some neglected and thirsty plant, while I was re-reading "Tom Grogan" or Brander Matthews' plays, but for much of the time we talked and exchanged views on current topics or old friends. When the evening came we prudently went inside and continued our reading or our talk till we felt inclined to seek our comfortable beds and the oblivion that blots out troubles or pleasures.

And so on for five momentous days. Quite unlike the "Seven Days" in the delightful farce-comedy of that name, in which everything happened, here nothing seemed to happen. We were miles from a post-office, and newspapers disturbed us not. The world of human activity was as though it were not. Politics as we left it was a disturbing memory, but no fresh outbreaks aggravated our discomfort. We were at rest and we rested. A good recipe for long life, I think, would be: withdraw from life's turmoil regularly--five days in a month.

AN ANNIVERSARY

The Humboldt County business established and conducted on honor by Alex.

Brizard was continued on like lines by his three sons with conspicuous success. As the fiftieth anniversary approached they arranged to fitly celebrate the event. They invited many of their father's and business a.s.sociates to take part in the anniversary observance in July, 1913.

With regret, I was about to decline when my good friend Henry Michaels, a State Guard a.s.sociate, who had become the head of the leading house in drugs and medicines with which Brizard and his sons had extensively dealt, came in and urged me to join him in motoring to Humboldt. He wanted to go, but would not go alone and the double delight of his company and joining in the anniversary led to prompt acceptance of his generous proposal. There followed one of the most enjoyable outings of my life. I had never compa.s.sed the overland trip to Humboldt, and while I naturally expected much the realization far exceeded my antic.i.p.ations.

From the fine highway following the main ridge the various branches of the Eel River were clearly outlined, and when we penetrated the world-famous redwood belt and approached the coast our enjoyment seemed almost impious, as though we were motoring through a cathedral.

We found Arcata bedecked for the coming anniversary. The whole community felt its significance. When the hour came every store in town closed.

Seemingly the whole population a.s.sembled in and around the Brizard store, anxious to express kindly memory and approval of those who so well sustained the traditions of the elders. The oldest son made a brief, manly address and introduced a few of the many who could have borne tribute. It was a happy occasion in which good-will was made very evident. A ball in the evening concluded the festivities, and it was with positive regret that we turned from the delightful atmosphere and retraced our steps to home and duty.

CHAPTER XII

OCCASIONAL VERSE

BOSTON (After Bret Harte)

On the south fork of Yuba, in May, fifty-two, An old cabin stood on the hill, Where the road to Gra.s.s Valley lay clear to the view, And a ditch that ran down to Buck's Mill.

It was owned by a party that lately had come To discover what fate held in store; He was working for Brigham, and prospecting some, While the clothes were well cut that he wore.

He had spruced up the cabin, and by it would stay, For he never could bear a hotel.

He refused to drink whiskey or poker to play, But was jolly and used the boys well.

In the long winter evenings he started a club, To discuss the affairs of the day.

He was up in the cla.s.sics--a scholarly cub-- And the best of the talkers could lay.

He could sing like a robin, and play on the flute, And he opened a school, which was free, Where he taught all the musical fellows to toot, Or to join in an anthem or glee.

So he soon "held the age" over any young man Who had ever been known on the bar; And the boys put him through, when for sheriff he ran, And his stock now was much above par.

In the spring he was lucky, and struck a rich lead, And he let all his friends have a share; It was called the New Boston, for that was his breed, And the rock that he showed them was rare.

When he called on his partners to put up a mill, They were anxious to furnish the means; And the needful, of course, turned into his till Just as freely as though it was beans.

Then he went to the Bay with his snug little pile-- There was seventeen thousand and more-- To arrange for a mill of the most approved style, And to purchase a Sturtevant blower.

But they waited for Boston a year and a day, And he never was heard of again.

For the lead he had opened was salted with pay, And he'd played 'em with culture and brain.

THE GREATER FREEDOM

O G.o.d of battles, who sustained Our fathers in the glorious days When they our priceless freedom gained, Help us, as loyal sons, to raise Anew the standard they upbore, And bear it on to farther heights, Where freedom seeks for self no more, But love a life of service lights.

OUR FATHER

Is G.o.d our Father? So sublime the thought We cannot hope its meaning full to grasp, E'en as the Child the gifts the wise men brought Could not within his infant fingers clasp.

We speak the words from early childhood taught.

We sometimes fancy that their truth we feel; But only on life's upper heights is caught The vital message that they may reveal.

So on the heights may we be led to dwell, That nearer G.o.d we may more truly know How great the heritage His love will tell If we be lifted up from things below.

RESURGAM

The stricken city lifts her head, With eyes yet dim from flowing tears; Her heart still throbs with pain unspent, But hope, triumphant, conquers fears.

With vision calm, she sees her course, Nor shrinks, though th.o.r.n.y be the way.

Shall human will succ.u.mb to fate, Crushed by the happenings of a day?

The city that we love shall live, And grow in beauty and in power; Her loyal sons shall stand erect, Their chastened courage Heaven's dower.