A CANADIAN IN CALIFORNIA

[Welland Tribune, 4 March 1898]

(Letter from Miss Stone)

LOS ANGELES, Cal., Feb 14, 1898.

EDITOR TRIBUNE :

DEAR SIR, — In response to requests from home friends to send another letter for publication, I shall jot down a few facts gleaned concerning this wonderful country. I have been enjoying a pleasant visit with friends at Perris, a town of about 500 inhabitants, situated in San Jacinto Valley, 50 miles inland from the coast. The visitor is amazed when told that this town has sprung up within the last five years, that being the date that water was piped in from Bear Valley in San Bernardino Mountains, 40 miles to the north. The old saying, “as free as water,” means little to the people of this valley, as their water rates are very high, and the insufficiency of water has greatly retarded the growth of this section. The climate is all that could be desired, as it escapes the ocean fogs by its distance from the coast, while its elevation of 1,400 feet renders it specially favorable for those who are affected with the throat and lung troubles. It was my privilege to attend a convention of Christian workers at Redlands, in a town 26 miles to the north. The gathering was one of great spiritual life and power, but the visitor was struck with the number of invalids among the speakers and others taking part in the services. On enquiry we learned that it was comprised largely of many of the most brilliant and cultured minds the eastern and middle states produce, but failing health had made it necessary for them to seek a warmer and more congenial clime in which to recuperate. All these requisites are found herein these valleys. It is like a great sanitarium provided by the loving mother heart of nature for her afflicted children, this beautiful valley, nestled in here among the foothills, while the majestic mountains with their snow-clapped summits, stand like giant sentinels on duty, warding off attacks from every point of danger.

When you visit Southern California, do not fail to visit Redlands, and do not fail to take a drive to “Smiley Heights,” which has been so enthusiastically called “The Italy of America” this charming spot is owned by two brothers, who left their New England home 25 years ago to make a home for themselves in the barren waste where the picturesque town of Redlands now stands. They selected the highest point. The writer was privileged to enjoy a drive through the parks surrounding their homes. We pass along terraced driveways, on every side a profusion of flowers and rare shrubbery, onward and upward a gradual ascent. Now we come to an acute angle in the road, revealing new beauties to the scene. There are miles of solid masonry on either side, as a protection from the freshets caused by snow melting on the mountains. At length the “Enchanted Palaces” are reached. Just stop and feast your eyes on the surroundings. Flowers, flowers, everywhere. This is the winter home of the Smiley brothers. During the summer months they superintend a large hotel in the Adirondacks. They are Quakers, with decided temperance principles. Recently some of their boarders called for a choice brand of liquors, but were informed that no intoxicants should be used at the house, upon which guests said that if their requests were not granted they would use all possible means to make the hotel unpopular. Result – the Smiley house lost none of its patronage, but was kept open after all others had been closed for the season. In your visit to this state do not miss a visit to “Smiley Heights,” and you will be convinced that these are veritable smiling heights, and show what generous, public-spirited citizens, with money, by applying art and science, work and water, can make out of these apparently arid foot hills.

Just now I am down near the grand old ocean. Will you stroll with me along the beach, gather shells and mosses, or clamber over the rocks. Sit here and watch the long lazy roll of the water, as one after another the swells follow each other and break in white ruffles along the clean sand, graciously submitting to that old, old edict : “Hitherto shalt thou come but no further.” How puny and insignificant seems all human strength in the face of 8000 miles of fathomless water! Someone asks: “Are you not homesick to see the “beautiful” falling in feathery wreaths and mantling mother earth in her snow white garb.” In fancy I can hear the wind whistling, snow storms raging, fell my ears tingling with cold, frost-bitten feet and other comforts (?) of Welland county in winter. I much prefer these beautiful marechal neil roses for snowballs, or if you wish something more substantial, just reach your hand out of the open window where I am sitting (mercury at 70aaa) and help yourself to the ripe golden oranges—preferable to some of us.

M. E. STONE.

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