At noon we reached San Juan Capistrano.  We drove into the grounds of the hospitable Judge Egan.  At a table, beneath the grateful shade of giant trees, amid the perfume of flowers, the sweet songs of happy birds, we ate our lunch.  After a short rest we took up the run again.  We passed El Toro and finally came onto the great San Joaquin ranch, every acre of which is now highly cultivated.

Then came the Santa Ana region, thickly settled, rich in soil and products.  We passed through beautiful and enterprising Santa Ana, through miles upon miles of walnut, orange and other fruit groves, through a solid settlement extending far on each side of the road, to Anaheim.  And still on through more walnut and orange groves, more wealth-producing crops.

Through the orange and lemon and walnut groves of Fullerton, extending to and forming a large part of Whittier, I could not help exclaiming to myself, “What an empire this is!  Where is the country that yields the annual returns per acre that this land does?” At Whittier we got into one of the newly constructed county highways, and at 3:30 p. m. we were home again, after four days in the open, four days of pure and unadulterated happiness.

A Hunting Trip in the Long Ago

One of the disadvantages of old age, even advancing years, is the pleasure we lose in anticipating future events.  Enthusiastic youth derives more pleasure in planning a journey, an outing or a social gathering than can possibly be realized from any human experience.  With what pleasure the young set out, getting ready for a hunting trip, or an excursion to some remote locality never visited by them!

From the first day I arrived in Los Angeles, I had heard of the Fort Tejon and the Rancho La Liebre country as a hunting paradise, extolled by all people I met, who were given to spending an occasional week or two in the mountains in search of game.  In consequence of what I had heard of this region, I made up my mind to go there the first time I got an opportunity.

Among the first acquaintances I made here was a dear old man named A. C. Chauvin, formerly of St. Louis, Mo., and of French descent.  He had spent many years in the Northwest, hunting and trapping.  He was an excellent shot with both rifle and shotgun.  Notwithstanding the fact that he was slightly afflicted with a nervous disorder akin to palsy, which kept his left arm and hand, when not in use, constantly shaking, the moment he drew up his gun, his nerves were steady, and his aim perfect.  He despised the modern breech-loading rifle, and insisted on shooting an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading, single-barrel rifle, made by a fellow townsman, Henry Slaughterbach.  It was an exceedingly accurate and powerful shooting gun.  Chauvin was a thorough hunter, well versed in woodcraft, up in camp equipage and the requirements of men on a two or three weeks’ hunting trip.