Terms, Pire Dollars o Year. 

 Ten L'ent9 a Copy. 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY, OCT. 22, 1874. 



j Volume 3, Number 11. 



1 17 Chatham St. (CityHnliSqr.) 



THE NEST, 



TTNDEE the apple tree, somebody said, 

 LJ "Look at that robin's nest overhead! 

 All of sharp sticks, and of mud and clay— 

 What a rough home for n Summer day!" 

 Gaunt stood the apple tree, gaunt and bare, 

 Aud creaked in I he winds which blustered there. 

 The nest was wet with the April rain; 

 The clay run down In an ugly stain; 

 Little it looked, I mnst- truly say, 

 Like a lovely home for a Summer day , 



Up In the apple tree, somebody laughed, 



"Little yon kuow of the true home craft. 



Laugh if yon like, at my sticks and clay; 



They'll make a good home for a Summer day. 



May turns the apple tree pink and white, 



Sunny all day, and fragrant at night. 



My babies will never feel the showers. 



For rain can't get through these reathers of ours. 



Snug under my wing they will cnddle and creep. 



Said the robin mother, flying away 



After more of the sticks and mud and clay. 



Under the apple tree, somebody sighed, 

 "Ah me, the blunder of folly and pride! 

 The roughest small boose of mud or clay 

 Might be a sweet home for a Summer day, 

 Snuny and fragrant all day, all night, 

 With only good cheer for fragrance and light; 

 And the bitierest storms of grief and pain 

 Will beat and break on that home in vain, 

 Where a true-hearted mother broods alway 

 And makes the whole year like a Summer day." 



—St. Nicholas for October. 



- »*♦> 



Selected. 

 O NWARD ! 



Let me go on! 

 I know the way behind me seemeth fair; 

 I know the sun shone brightly, warmly there; 

 And on before lieth a broad dim meadow; 

 And what waits me there is draped in shadow, 



And yet I would press on. 



Not back, but on ! 

 I know the past was full of pleasant things: 

 The songs of birds, the rustle of their wings. 

 I know the futnre holds no sounds of singing. 

 No sounds of laughter, nor of glad tones ringing, 



And yet I would go on. 



Steadily on! 

 What though the past was a smooth, even road ; 

 What though the present holds no heavy load, 

 And all the future way is rough and hilly, 

 Whose snows are endless, and whose winds are chilly, 



But yet I would keep on. 



Aye, up and on! 

 I hate thiseveu, uueventful life; 

 Give me the scenes of labor and of strife, 

 My path is ragged, but it is ascending, 

 And I shall stand exalted at the ending, 



And so I will press on. 



For Forest and Stream. 



|#n/# efffomen. 



RANCHE LIFE IN SOUTHERN CALI- 

 FORNIA. 



BY W.\C. .M. TILESTOX. 



THE storm was increasing in intensity. Every fresh 

 gust appeared to bring the low flying scud closer to 

 us, and my horse, scrambling and stumbling among the 

 boulders which lined the beach, threatened every moment 

 to come down. Looking ahead, the huge mountains, 

 seamed Willi black ravines, came nearer and nearer to the 

 sea, and promised to cut off what little of road was left. 

 Oceanward the huge rollers, their crests torn and scattered 

 by the wind, were dashing in grand confusion against the 

 rock-bound coast, each succeeding wave throwing a foam- 

 ing line of water closer to where steed and rider struggled 

 against the gale. 



I had followed closely the directions given me at Santa 

 Barbara, and after making a short detour inland had struck 

 the old stage road at the charming little village of Carpeu- 



tiera. Leaving its groves of olives and shady oaks, the 

 road, as had been described, gradually approached the 

 coast, and after fifteen or twenty miles of as hard riding 

 as circumstances would permit, all prospect of further 

 progress appeared cut off. On one side was the Pacific 

 Ocean, stretching away for six thousand miles to its Asiatic 

 shore; on the other the coast range of Sierras, rising thou- 

 sands of feet in height, dark and forbidding, their summits 

 obscured in mist. Every little arroya, or gulch, had now 

 become a foaming mountain torrent, roaring and dashing 

 on to meet the breakers which threw them back again. 

 Low in the "Western horizon a brighter spot of sky indi- 

 cated the setting sun, and the darkness of night appeared 

 about to be added to the perplexities of my situation. 



"Whoa, Pinto," and the mustang gladly stopped and 

 stood with tail to wind, while I took a pull at my tiask and 

 considered what was to be done. To go back and be lost 

 on the beach for the night, and perhaps engulfed by a ris- 

 ing tide, was out of the question; to remain where we 

 were, with a wall of rock on one side and the whole Pa- 

 cific on the other, was equally so. The only chance was 

 to push on, and trust to finding a brealc in the mountains, 

 or a friendly shelter where we could pass the night. Pull- 

 ing the folds of my serape closer around me, and sheltering 

 my thighs as well as was possible, with a melancholy at- 

 tempt at cheerfulness, I shook the jingling bit and heavy 

 rowelled spurs, and urged the cabatto to a canter. While 

 the good horse is endeavoring to pick his way over the 

 rocks I will briefly explain the causes which led to my 

 present embarrassing position. 



A short month before I was lounging in New York, pre- 

 tending to Tead law, but in reality nursing an incipient 

 cough, and speculating upon the chances of pulling 

 through the year. A few drops of blood, discovered by 

 my lynx eyed madre on my pocket handkerchief, and the 

 imperative mandate of the family physician, decided the 

 question, and in ten days I was in San Francisco. A trip 

 to Yosemite and Mariposa resulted in my meeting at the 

 latter place with a gentleman who was about proceeding 

 on a horseback trip through the State. Accepting an invi- 

 tation to join him, I procured the' necessary outfit, and in- 

 vested fifty dollars in a mustang. 



"I allow, stranger," said the dealer, one of Mr. Fre- 

 mont's subjects, "that this yere boss ain't much to look at, 

 but yer can bet yer bottom dollar he's a good unto go." 

 And so he proved. 



Proceeding leisurely by the stage road, and stopping at 

 the stations — which are only twelve or fifteen miles apait — 

 for board and lodging, or sometimes camping for the night 

 under a sheltering oak, and rolled in our blankets, with 

 our horses picketed near; or again, sharing a shepherd's 

 cabin and homely fare, we had reached Santa Barbara after 

 one of the most delightful and health-inspiring trips that 

 can be imagined. Here my companion was detained for 

 several days attending to some business matters, and after 

 "doing" the old mission, and other lions of the place, I 

 became tired of inaction, and longed to be again on the 

 road. Observing this, my friend suggested that I should 

 ride on one day in advance of him, as far as San Buena- 

 ventura, fifty miles down the coast. There he could join 

 me, and we could proceed together to Los Angelos, our 

 ultimate destination. Assenting willingly to this proposi- 

 tion, notwithstanding the threatening storm, I had started 

 immediately after breakfast, with the results I am now 

 describing. 



Louder roared the wind and fiercer came the gusts as we 

 struggled against the gale. Lifting my eyes, which were 

 almost blinded with the spray, I saw in front a sharp wall 

 of Tock rising almost perpendicularly from the water 

 which was washing its base. Beyond it nothing was dis- 

 tinguishable, and there was but the bare chance of finding 

 a better road oh the other side. I urged the unwilling 

 horse to enter the water. Gradually and cautiously he 

 felt his way over the sandy bottom until we had passed the 

 point, when, turning at a sharp angle, he scrambled on to 

 the beach again, and gave a neigh of satisfaction. I felt 



like cheering myself as I noticed the change in our pros- 

 pects. Before us was a canon, or barranca, perhaps half a 

 mile in width, running deep into the mountain, its further 

 side forming a wall similar to the one we had just passed. 

 A stream, swollen to a torrent by the heavy rains, was 

 rushing over its tiny bed, and joining its flakes of foam 

 with the salt brine of the ocean. Dividing here and there, 

 it. formed little islands, on which were great sycamores 

 and cottonwood trees. The walls of the canon were cov- 

 ered with tall pines, and on the little bits of mesa, or table 

 land, were scattered huge live oaks, their spreading 

 branches covering space enough to afford shelter for 

 a regiment, and the ground beneath them carpeted with 

 soft green turf. But what pleased me most was the 

 sight of a well defined trail, leading directly up the canon, 

 which promised to lead to shelter at least, if not to supper. 

 Pinto made the discovery at the same time as myself, and 

 pricking up his ears started off with more animation than 

 he had shown for hours. A sharp ride of a mile and we 

 hear the tinkling of a sheep bell, and a few minutes after- 

 wards the bright light of a fire became visible through the 

 trees. Three or four wild looking dogs sprang from the 

 fire a3 we approached, but were called back by the shep- 

 herd, who canje from the shadow of a tree. Near by was 

 a large corral, in which a thousand or more sheep were 

 gathered for the night. 



"Buenos tardes, amigo," said I, addressing one of the 

 men. 

 "Buenos tardes, caballers." 

 "Adonde estar la casa?" 



"The house of the padrone is near by, sefior; you will 

 be welcomed there." 

 "Who is the padrone?" 



"Valga a mi Dios, sefior; you must have ridden far not 

 to know the padrone. " 



"Yes, I am a stranger; but what is his name?" 

 "Hon Enrique, sefior, and the house is beyond the 

 canon, on the mem. I will conduct you there." 



Following my guide up the stream to where a series of 

 boulders enabled him to cross, he bounded over with the 

 agility of a mountaineer, and my horse managing to scram- 

 ble over after him we soon struck a path cut in the side of 

 the canon, which led us gradually to the table land above. 

 It was too dark to distinguish clearly, but at a short, dis- 

 tance I could see lights twinkling, which indicated a house 

 of some kind. Now, thought I, for martyrdom and phle- 

 botomy. But even the prospect of a night among the 

 fleas on a sheep ranehe, was better than spending it on the 

 beach. To my surprise, however, white washed fences 

 came in view, and I could see rows of olive and other trees. 

 The house proved to be one of the long, low, rambling 

 structures peculiar to Mexico and southern California, built 

 in the form of a square, with a courtyard in the centre. 

 Saluted by a chorus of dogs, we approached the main en- 

 trance, which was guarded by a pair of immense doors. 

 My guide entered the courtyard, but being uncertain of 

 the reception I should meet with, and not knowing what 

 to do with my horse, I waited without. In a moment I 

 heard a deep bass voice exclaiming "Where is the cabal- 

 lero?" and my prospective host appeared at the door. 



» Alight, stranger, and come in the house; Juan will take 

 care of your horse." 



I succeeded in getting to the ground, but, sore and stiff- 

 ened with the long day's ride, my legs refused to perform 

 their office, and had it not been for the strong arm thrown 

 piotectingly around me I should have fallen to the ground. 

 "This way, friend, your wet ride has been almost too 

 much for you, but a little aguadwnte will set you straight in 

 jiffy. Move, mucJupas, &n& let the stranger have some of 

 the fire." 



A swallow of the fiery spirit, and the removal of some 

 of my outer garments, restored my scattered senses, and 

 the feeling of intense fatigue gave way to one of astonish- 

 ment at the quarters in which I found myself. The room 

 was comfortably, even luxuriously, furnished. Two love- 

 ly girls, and a buxom lady, evidently their mother, gazed 



