was Dr. Paul out here when California was admitted into the Union—1850, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course; why, my child, he was one of the delegates called by General Riley, the military governor, to meet in convention at Monterey and make a State constitution. That was September, too—the first day of September 1849. He went back to the East some time afterwards, and stayed ten or fifteen years; but he was a real pioneer and “forty-niner” all the same.
The next night, September 9th, was so cool that the camp-fire was more than ordinarily delightful; accordingly they piled on more wood than usual, and prepared for a grand blaze. It was always built directly in front of the sitting-room tent, so that Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Winship could sit there if they liked; but the young people preferred to lie lazily on their cushions and saddles under the oak-tree, a little distance from the blaze. The clear, red firelight danced and flickered, and the sparks rose into the sombre darkness fantastically, while the ruddy glow made the great oak an enchanted palace, into whose hollow dome they never tired of gazing. When the light streamed highest, the bronze green of the foliage was turned into crimson, and, as it died now and then, the stars winked brightly through the thousand tiny windows formed by the interlacing branches.
‘Well,’ said the doctor, bringing his Chinese lounging-chair into the circle, and lighting his pipe so as to be thoroughly happy and comfortable, ‘will you banish distinctions of age and allow me to sit among you this evening?’
‘Certainly,’ Margery said; ‘that’s the very point of the celebration. This is Admission Day, you know, and why shouldn’t we admit you?’
‘True; and having put myself into a holiday humour by dining off Pancho’s dish of guisado (I suppose to-night of all nights we must call beef and onion stew by its local name), I will proceed to business, and we will talk about California. By the way, I shall only conduct the exercises, for I feel rather embarrassed by the fact that I’ve never killed, or been killed by, a bear, never been bitten by a tarantula, poisoned by a rattlesnake, assaulted by a stage-robber, nor anything of that sort. You have all read my story of crossing the plains. I even did that in a comparatively easy and unheroic fashion. I only wish, my dear girls and boys, that we had with us some one of the brave and energetic men and women who made that terrible journey at the risk of their lives. The history of the California Crusaders, the thirty thousand or more emigrants who crossed the plains in ’48, more than equals the great military expeditions of the Middle Ages, in magnitude, peril, and adventure. Some went by way of Santa Fé and along the hills of the Gila; others, starting from Red River, traversed the Great Stake Desert and went from El Paso del Norte to Sonora; others went through Mexico, and, after spending over a hundred days at sea, ran into San Diego and gave up their vessels; others landed exhausted with their seven months’ passage round the Horn; and some reached the spot on foot after walking the whole length of the California peninsula.’
‘What privations they must have suffered!’ said Mrs. Howard. ‘I never quite realised it.’
‘Why, the amount of suffering that was endured in those mountain passes and deserts can never be told in words. Those who went by the Great Desert west of the Colorado found a stretch of burning salt plains, of shifting hills of sand, with bones of animals and men scattered along the trails; of terrible and ghastly odours rising in the hot air from the bodies of hundreds of mules, and human creatures too, that lay half-buried in the glaring white sand. A terrible journey indeed; but if any State in the Union could be fair enough, fertile enough, and rich enough to repay such a lavish expenditure of energy and suffering, California certainly was and is the one. Now who can tell us something of the name “California”? You, Geoffrey?’
‘Geoffrey has crammed!’ exclaimed Bell, maliciously. ‘I believe he’s been reading up all day and told papa what question to ask him!’
‘I’ll pass it on to you if you like,’ laughed Geoffrey.
‘No—you’d never get another that you could answer! Go on!’
‘In 1534, one Hernando de Grijalva was sent by Hernando Cortez to discover something or other, and it was probably he who then saw the peninsula of California; but a quarter of a century before this a romance called Esplandian had appeared in Spain, narrating the adventures of an Amazonian queen who brought allies from “the right hand of the Indies” to assist the infidels in their attack upon Constantinople—by the way I forgot to say that she was a pagan. This queen of the Amazons was called Calafia, and her kingdom, rich in gold and precious stones, was named California. The writer of the romance derived this name, perhaps, from Calif, a successor of Mohammed. He says: “Know that on the right hand of the Indies there is an island named California, very close to the Terrestial Paradise, and it was peopled by black women without any man among them, for they lived in the fashion of the Amazonia. They were of strong and hardy bodies, of ardent courage, and of great force. Their island was the strongest in all the world, with its steep cliffs and rocky shore. Their arms were all of gold, and so was the harness of the wild beasts which they tamed and rode. For in the whole island there was no metal but gold. They lived in caves wrought out of the rocks with much labour, and they had many ships with which they sailed out to other countries to obtain booty.” Cortez and Grijalva believed that they were near the coast of Asia, for they had no conception of the size of the world nor of the vastness of the Pacific Ocean; and as the newly-discovered land corresponded with the country described in the romance, they named the peninsula California.’
‘My book,’ said Philip, ‘declared that the derivation of the name was very uncertain, and that it was first bestowed on one of the coast bays by Bernal Diaz.’
‘Now, Philip!’ exclaimed Margery, ‘do you suppose we are going to believe that, after Geoff’s lovely story?’
‘Certainly not; I only thought I’d permit you to hear both sides. I knew of course that you would believe the prettier story of the two—girls always do!’
‘That isn’t a “pretty story”—your remark, I mean, so we won’t believe it; will we, girls?’ asked Bell.
‘Now, Polly, your eyes sparkle as if you couldn’t wait another minute; your turn next,’ said Dr. Winship.
‘I am only afraid that I can’t remember my contribution, which is really Bell’s and still more really Pancho’s, for he told it to us, and Bell translated it and made it into a story. We call it “Valerio; or, The Mysterious Mountain Cave.”’
‘Begins well!’ exclaimed Jack.
‘Now, Jack, you must be nice. Remember this is Bell’s story, and she is letting me tell it so that I can bear my share in the entertainment.’
‘Pancho believes every word of it,’ added Bell, ‘and says that his father told it to him; but as I had to change it from bad Spanish into good English, I don’t know whether I’ve caught the idea exactly.’
‘Oh, it will do quite nicely, I’ve no doubt,’ said Jack, encouragingly. ‘We’ve often heard you do good English into bad Spanish, and turn and turn about is only fair play. Don’t mind me, Polly; I will be gentle!’
‘Jack, if you don’t behave yourself I’ll send you to bed,’ said Elsie; and he ducked his head obediently into her lap, as Polly, with her hands clasping her knees, and with the firelight dancing over her bright face, leaned forward and told the Legend of
VALERIO; OR, THE MYSTERIOUS MOUNTAIN CAVE.
‘A long time ago, before the settlement of Santa Barbara by the whites, the Mission padres had a great many Indians under their control, who were known as peons,
