In California, Orange Day is next in importance to Washington’s Birthday and the Fourth of July.  I shall never forget our first experience of its charms.  We were motoring, taking a last jaunt in an old machine which we had just sold for more than we ever had expected to get for it.  It was a reckless thing to do, for we had no spare tire and it is very like speculating in oil stocks to start for a run of any length under those circumstances.  It worked out about as it would have done if we had been trifling with the stock market.  A rear tire blew out, and we were put under the disagreeable necessity of giving our purchaser more nearly his money’s worth.  This was a poor start for a holiday, but being near a delightful inn, we crept slowly to town on our rim and found a fete awaiting us.  We also found friends from the East who asked us all to lunch, thereby, as one member of the party put it in Pollyanna’s true spirit, much decreasing the price of the new tire.  The inn is built in Spanish style and we lunched in a courtyard full of gaudy parrots, singing birds in wicker cages and singing senoritas as gay as the parrots, on balconies above us.  The entire menu was orange, or at least colored orange.  It was really charming, and our spirits rose to almost a champagne pitch, though orange juice—­diluted at that—­was the only beverage served. (I believe that there is a Raisin Day, also, but on account of its horrid association with rice and bread puddings we have let that slip by unnoticed.)

Our California color scheme is the very latest thing in decorative art.  There is nothing shrinking about us, for we come boldly forth in orange and yellows in true cigar-ribbon style—­even our motor licenses of last year had poppies on them.  Speaking of poppies, I heard the other day of a lady who voiced her opinion in all seriousness in the paper, that Mr. Hoover should have California poppy seeds sent to him for distribution among the Belgians to sow over the ruins of their country.  Of course there is something in the power of suggestion, and I suppose it would brighten up the landscape.  Joedy is strong on the color idea.  We had a neighbor who had a terrible attack of jaundice, which turned her the color of a daffodil.  I was saying what a pity it was, then Joedy observed:  “Well, Muvs, I think she makes a nice bright spot of color!”

There is a road leading toward the San Fernando Valley, with fruit stalls on both sides, very gay with oranges, grape-fruit, and lemons.  One particularly alluring stand is presided over by a colored mammy in bandana shades, turban and all.