1899 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



181 



center around which all Klamathon revolves ; 

 in fact, it is the life and hope of the town; for 

 everybody works there except the women. 

 The mill was running night and day ; and 

 under the brilliant electric lights it was no 

 small sight to witness the rapid manner in 

 which logs were handled and converted into 

 boards. 



The immense band-saw would cut its way 

 through a huge log 13 feet in length in just six 

 seconds ; in three seconds the log would be 

 run back and set for another cut ; then what 

 the ladies called the nigger (a square post 

 with a big spike in one side of it) would bob 

 up through the floor and flop that log over as 

 quickly as you could make three winks. 



From the rate they were working that night 

 I reckoned they could saw enough lumber in 

 one day for all the bee-hives bee-keepers will 

 need in California in one year, and a good 

 year at that. 



Take it all in all, this entertainment in the 

 mountains, with three ladies to show me 

 around, was much better than a theater, a 

 minstrel show, or even a football game, for 

 which I have a special weakness. 



I broke right out again the next morning 

 on my wheel for Ashland, Oregon, 32 miles 

 distant. I had to make this break or wait ten 

 hours for the train, so I broke. I soon came 

 to the mute but eloquent sign that marks the 

 line of division between California and Oregon. 

 I thought it fitting to celebrate the occasion, 

 and carefully dismounted, took off my hat, 

 unfurled the little American flag I had with 

 me, and, with due respect for our sister State, 

 passed into her territory. My respect contin- 

 ued to grow that day until it reached the 

 altitude of about 4300 feet, or, in other words, 

 I passed over the Siskiyou Mountains, and 

 had to walk at least six miles and push my 

 wheel ahead of myself up a steep grade. I 

 had the consolation, though, of believing that 

 it would be down grade on the other side, 

 where I could make up for lost time. 



Another feature was highly gratifying. The 

 water, that often appeared in crystal springs 

 or musical rills, was cold, sweet, and invigor- 

 ating, and I can tell you that Siskiyou Moun- 

 tain produces the best water I ever drank, and 

 the memory of the refreshing draughts I sip- 

 ped from every spring and fountain still lingers 

 on my palate. 



For at least ten miles that day I passed over 

 the most lonely road I ever traveled — not a 

 house, human being, animal, or scarcely a 

 bird. It was an excellent road for a hold-up ; 

 but the fellow who does such things evidently 

 did not expect the Rambler. 



I have traveled over and lived in many lone- 

 some places ; but I hardly ever think of the 

 robbery contingency, and I am more and more 

 impressed with the fact that we have a very 

 good country in which to live, and where the 

 law makes it unhealthy for the existence of 

 brigands. 



I have found quite a number of eastern 

 people who look upon any portion of our 

 country west of the Rocky Mountains as a 

 wild and woolly region ; and when they come 

 here they tuck a revolver into their grip ; but, 



my dear friend, if you contemplate coming to 

 California don't waste your money on deadly 

 weapons. You will not need them, and are 

 more liable to shoot yourself than to use them 

 on any other person. People are just as safe 

 on the Pacific coast as they are on the Atlantic 

 side. 



I rested awhile on the summit of Siskiyou 

 Mountain, waved my bandana in a sort of 

 imaginative way to the bee-keepers of the 

 south and the east, and then, with a fir-bush 

 trailing behind, went whirling down the road 

 that wound through the tangled wild woods. 

 Acorns were plentiful here, and the only ani- 

 mal I disturbed on the Oregon side was an 

 occasional pig busily crunching and fattening 

 on them. And it was down grade to make 

 you smile — a drop of 2252 feet in 13 miles. 



I was quite interested in Ashland, whither I 

 was tending, for it is one of those towns where 

 the late Mr. Levering marketed quite an 

 amount of honey. He employed teams to 

 freight it out from Siskiyou County ; but the 

 expense of transportation, the competition of 

 other bee-keepers in Oregon, as well as the 

 low price for which honey could be purchased 

 and delivered from San Francisco, reduced his 

 net profit to a small figure. 



There are a few bee-keepers within a few 

 miles of Ashland, and after a fair night's rest 

 I proceeded to hunt up at least one of them. 

 My landlord informed me that Mr. W. C. 

 Myers was a bee-keeper of some local note. 

 "And," said he, " you will probably find him 

 about this time of day at the creamery just up 

 the street." So I hied away to the creamery. 

 On my way I overtook a man who had the 

 appearance of a well-to-do farmer, and I asked 

 him if he knew a man by the name of Myers. 



"Why, yes," said he, "I ought to know 

 him, for that is my name;" and Mr. Myers 

 and I proceeded to the creamery together. 



Mr. Myers is not extensively engaged in 

 bee-keeping. He makes it a sort of side issue. 

 He is one of the most prosperous farmers near 

 Ashland, with an elegant house and commo- 

 dious barns. I was especially interested in 

 the beautiful Shetland ponies on his ranch. 

 For several years he has made the breeding of 

 these diminutive horses a specialty, his taste 

 running more in that direction than with bees, 

 and, withal, with more certainty of profit. 



