THE KADOTA, FIG 



The Fig Tree 



BY 

 J. C. FORKNER 



I am the Fig Tree 



I was born in the Garden of Eden 



I furnished both food and clothing 



For Adam and Eve 



For Six Thousand years 



I have been a comfort and a solace 



To man 



During all these thousands of years 



While man was evolving 



I clung close to the shores of the Med- 

 iterranean 



My birthplace 



Man found many lands 



Many climes where he could prosper 



I found none 



'Till about 1 50 years ago 



Junipero Serra, the Franciscan Father 



Planted me in California 



When my roots went down into that 

 blessed earth 



I then realized a new home 



And a new destiny 



Was for me 



I sojourned many years 



In the Golden State 



In the Southland, along the coast 



And around the bay 



Giving the best I could 



Where Sun and Soil and Moisture 



But partly met my needs 



I knew 



Somewhere in the State 



Of a Thousand Valleys 



I would find a place 



Where I could do my best 



For you must know 



I am particular 



The winters must not be cold 



I must have no rains fall upon me 



From June 'till October 



The air during the same season 



Must be almost bone dry 



The soil must be to my liking 



Plenty of lime and potash 



The drainage must be perfect 



For one hundred days the sun must 

 shine 



From a clear sky 



And reach near one hundred degrees 



Of heat each day 



Before I give perfect fruit 



Now you can see why for six thousand 

 years 



I clung to the shores of the Mediter- 

 ranean 



Few places on the Globe suit my fancy 



One day near seventy-five years ago 



A roving Argonaut planted me 



In the red soil 



On the western slope of the Sierras 



Near where Fresno 



The Garden of the Sun 



Was destined to be 



That day I knew 



I had found the spot 



Where I could do my best 



It has taken all these years 



For Californians to see 



How perfectly I work 



When my requirements are met 



I am now producing fifteen million 

 pounds each year 



In my new home 



There are one hundred million people 



In the dear old U. S. A. 



They can eat my present yearly supply 



