House and Garden 
carved benches where Paolo and Francesca might 
have sat and read their tale of Guenevere. 
There is one garden in Montecito that is specially 
beautiful. It has its towered house and its terraces, 
its balustrades and vases of trailing vines, and it has all 
the other things of beauty, riots of bloom, acres of it, 
bananas, palms and exquisite camphor trees, bamboo 
rods and slender poplars, but the spot supremely 
beautiful, is an altar to Narcissus. The beautiful 
god stands in bronze upon a pedestal against a hedge 
of laurel. A semicircular bench of veined marble 
starts from the pedestal, in the base of which is a 
dolphin head spouting a slender stream of water. 
Phis water runs through a narrow trench in the floor 
of the circle and falls over a short flight of steps down 
a long path lined with lilacs, into a round pool filled 
with water plants and gold fish. Olive branches 
hang over the sides of the benches in the circle, 
their silver and gray leaves in relief against the white 
stone. It is all upon the side of the mountain, which 
rises above the laurel hedge behind the figure. In 
front it falls away, down to the valley. Beyond is 
another range of hills and then far off, is the sea 
shining in the sun. Here is the god Narcissus in his 
own Greek air, and in his own Greek sun'with a sky 
to look upon him like the sky above Olympus. 
Any discussions of gardens in California would be 
incomplete without some reference to the old Span¬ 
ish Missions. The plan of these missions was almost 
invariably the same and consisted of a group of 
buildings built about a great central court, the patio. 
In the center of the patio was usually a fountain 
and about it were planted the shrubs and trees dear 
to the heart of the missionaries, pink Castilian roses, 
geraniums, cypresses, olives and the fragrant orange. 
Then there was the palm in its variety, raising its 
delicate branches above the riot of bloom beneath. 
Most of these missions are now in different degrees 
of ruin and desolation. San Juan Capistrano and 
San Fernando have been partially restored, and 
others are in line for rejuvenation, but of all the 
original twenty-one, the Santa Barbara Mission alone 
is as it was in the days of the padres, in the days 
of Father Juniperro it should be said, for the padres 
never left Santa Barbara. The mission has never 
been deserted, and so the dear old garden has never 
felt the damaging force of neglect. 
About the sides of the place rise the walls of the 
mission buildings, on one side the church with its 
red roof and tall towers, and upon another, the 
arched run of the cloister. Slender cypresses rise 
to the eaves and cast dark shadows upon the brick 
floors of the corridors. Geraniums and roses tangle 
in the patio, and above them stand exquisite 
camphor trees and the long-leaved banana. Upon 
the rim of the fountain are pots of plants in bloom. 
The charm of the place is indescribable. 
The most beautiful profusion of winter Bowers in 
California is to be found in the foot-hills and valleys 
around San Francisco. Nature at all times is more 
prodigal in this North than she is in the South where 
the scarcity of rain makes the earth less productive. 
Santa Rosa, in the Sonoma valley is the home of 
growing things. Here is the apogee of the rose. 
The gorgeous flower spreads over the walls and roofs 
of houses and hangs in almost barbaric profusion. 
Santa Rosa is the seat of Luther Burbank’s opera¬ 
tions and from this may be assumed that in Santa 
Rosa is a field for things that grow. In San Rafael, 
across the bay from San Francisco, is another flower- 
land where the winter garden is at its best. The 
little town is in a hollow of the hills and is protected 
from the winds that blow in from the sea. It is a 
sort of summer cottage colony of San Francisco 
people, Californians who know the possibilities of 
their own soil and so make the most of them. Here 
in San Rafael are tons of roses, the roses of lingering 
summer, great Gold of Ophir that smother roofs and 
chimneys in an ecstatic embrace of glory and per¬ 
fume. Lilac hedges along the roadsides are tipping 
themselves with purple promises and in the air is all 
the sureness of a fulfilling promise that gives you 
something delightful while you wait for a realizing 
that is scarcely less beautiful than the promise itself. 
In Mission San Jose, near Oakland, is an avenue 
upon an old estate that is lined for two miles with 
olives. There are palms in the old garden finer than 
any in California. There is a long swimming pool 
bordered with roses, and from January to January 
there are always pink rose-leaves in the water. But 
Del Monte—there is the perfection of gardening in 
California. It is more 'beautiful than the heights of 
Monte Carlo, and so it is more beautiful than any 
place in all the world. It is a great park covered 
with California oak and pine. Lawns stretch away 
acre upon acre, and here are the vines and the blooms 
of the land. Here are the growing things that make 
California a world apart. From the lakes in the 
East the swans have vanished but here in Del Monte 
they never leave the water. They are always floating 
about like white spirits of dead princesses. 
But, spring or winter, there is not much difference 
in California—it is summer always. These gardens 
in the long country between San Diego and Santa 
Rosa, vary but the breadth of a flower. It is a living 
earth that never dies, and never becomes bare. 
There is no freezing and there is no cold that kills. 
There are always rose-leaves in the pool in the old 
Spanish garden, and the olives beside the bronze 
Narcissus in Montecito are continually green. The 
roses hang from the house-tops to-day, to-morrow— 
as they were hanging yesterday. I he geraniums are 
fragrant perpetually and the palm trees never die. 
There are green leaves forever and ever, and a living 
earth, and always and always, the great god-sun, in 
the god-blue sky! 
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