January, 1906 
landing in the surf, being forced to leap overboard 
and hold the boat to prevent it from being washed back 
and beaten to pieces, we saw the Basque herder going 
up the beach. He was not even going to speak to us and 
displayed no curiosity in the news from the outer world 
from which he had not heard for months. 
He was armed with an old-fashioned rifle; his straw hat 
was tied beneath his chin, and he did not appear to be at all 
communicative. I learned that he walked up the island 
seven miles and back every day to see that the sheep found 
the grazing that was being covered with sand. This man 
said that he was afraid of the wind; he feared that it would 
blow him and his house into the sea, so he had built it down 
under the rocks and piled stones on the roof. On the door 
I read, ‘“‘Please do not entre.’’ But there was no one to entre. 
AMERICAN HOMES 
AND GARDENS 31 
In contrast to this are some of the sheep herders of the 
mainland. I recall a band of sheep in the southern part of 
the San Gabriel Valley, that in the winter season is carpeted 
with alfalfa, alfileria and clover, running wild and mixed to- 
gether in a maze of fodder. ‘The herder, a Mexican, fol- 
lows them about during the day, often not speaking to a 
soul for a week, walking slowly along with his dog, driving 
the herd at night upon a low knoll and into the corral where 
they are safe from marauding coyotes that have a penchant 
for mutton, old or young. He drives them over the country, 
and one day we met him in a typical southern California live 
oak grove where the fodder was high and lush. His finely 
bred sheep are being driven down to a little laguna, where 
they drank the refreshing water and rested under the shade, 
the herder watching them. We found the latter’s house not 
The House of an Indian Sheep Herder and Keeper among the Oaks 
He objected to our disturbing the human bones and ancient 
implements which we found everywhere; indeed this in his 
estimation was what made the wind blow—the spirits of the 
dead rebelled. 
A century ago this sheep ranch of San Nicolas, owned in 
San Buenaventura, Cal., was the home of a tribe of Indians 
who must have lived here for ages, judging by the vast heaps 
of shell, the skeletons of men and women, which littered the 
sand in places, covered to-day, uncovered to-morrow. 
Almost as isolated is the herder of Anacapa, about twenty 
miles off San Buenaventura, which is a long ridge of rock 
apparently barren and with no water. The men stated that 
the sheep obtained all the water they needed by licking each 
other’s wool, which became saturated like a sponge in the 
heavy nightly fogs which swept over the place. 
far away—a series of shacks glorified by surroundings 
placed beneath the large and spreading branches of a live 
oak, the roof, the leaves of a fan palm taken from neighbor- 
ing lofty palms, the whole appealing to the eye of the artist. 
The shearing time on these large ranches is always an 
interesting occasion. Mexicans, often Indians, do the work 
and camp out on the ranch at the time, presenting a pictur- 
esque feature. There are many of these men who travel 
about the country in a nomadic fashion; now shearing sheep 
in the San Gabriel, picking grapes, or in the early spring 
working in the barley fields; or we may find them picking 
oranges or olives. 
These groves of live oak are among the particular at- 
tractions of southern California, and they invariably tell of 
water beneath the surface. 
