And a lady told me that she could make herself understood by those of a certain tribe in Mexico by speaking to them in Sicilian. Which makes me think of Joel Chandler Harris and his embarrassment, after publishing his stories of “Uncle Remus,” to receive letters from learned men at home and abroad, inquiring how this legend that he had given was the same as one in India, or Egypt, or Siam.
The art of basketry is rapidly deteriorating, and will soon be lost unless Indian children in the reservation are taught something of the old skill by their grandmothers, before the few now living depart for that happy, unmolested hunting-ground they like to believe in, where I do hope they will find a land all their own.
The Mexican drawn-work is seen everywhere for sale, and at moderate prices—so moderate that any one is foolish to waste eyesight in imitating it. Each stitch has a name, and is full of meaning to the patient maker.
One can easily spend a good deal for curios, such as plaques, cups, vases, napkin-rings, plates and toothpicks of orange wood, bark pin-cushions, cat’s-eye pins, etchings of all the missions in India ink, wildflower, fern, and moss work, and, perhaps most popular of all, the pictures on orange wood of the burro, the poppy, and pepper and oranges. Or, if interested in natural history, you can secure a horned toad, a centipede, or a tarantula, alive or dead, and “set up.”
A horned toad is more easy to care for than the average baby alligator of Florida, and as a pet is not more exacting, as it can live six months without eating.
“Why do some women like horrible things for pets?
“Mother Eve set the example, and ever since serpents have been in the front rank of woman’s eccentric loves. Cleopatra was fond of tigers and ferocious beasts, but she turned at last to a snake as the most fitting creature to do her bidding.
“Centuries ago the queens of Egypt made pets of horned toads, and the ugly little reptiles became things of state, and their lives more sacred than the highest ministers to the court. Daughters of the Nile worshipped crocodiles.”
A very intelligent man, who has every reason to speak with authority about the tarantula as found in California, declares that it is not dangerous. He says they live in ground that has not been disturbed by the plough. Their hole in the ground is about three fourths of an inch in diameter and twelve or fourteen inches deep, with only a web over the top. Many tell us that the tarantula has a lid on the top of his house, but this is incorrect, as that belongs to the trap-door spider. It is sold, however, here as a tarantula’s nest. This creature dislikes the winter rains as much as the tourist does, and fills up the entrance of the nest in October and November, not appearing until May. The greater number are found on adobe and clay soil. Tarantulas never come out at night; the male sometimes appears just before sundown, but the female is seldom seen away from home unless disturbed. They seem to have a model family life. Mr. Wakely, who has caught more of these spiders than any living man, does not seem to dread the job in the least. One man goes ahead and places a small red flag at the opening of the nest; the next man pours down a little water, which brings Mr. T–- up to see what is the matter, and then Mr. W–- quietly secures it with a pair of pincers and puts it in a bottle, and has thus succeeded in catching hundreds, but has never had a bite. (This last line reminds me of the amateur angler.) He tells me that there seems to be a general impression that a tarantula will jump into the second-story window of a house, and, springing upon the neck of a young lady sitting there, will kill her instantly. He has never seen one jump three inches. If one leg is broken off nature soon provides another. The Texas variety is believed to be more dangerous. I do not know.
There are rattlesnakes to be seen and heard about the mountains in hot weather.
As to buying precious stones, especially opals, in this part of the country, I think it is wisest to buy opals in the real old Mexico for yourselves, often very cheaply. The prices rise rapidly here. A water opal, however beautiful, has no commercial value. It is but an imprisoned soap-bubble, and is apt to crumble. There are stores where pretty colored stones can be bought, but the majority get cheated as to price.
But we are not paying proper attention to the “panorama.” Many have been led to settle here by taking this picturesque trip; and with plenty of water oranges pay splendidly. So there is substantial wealth, ever on the increase, in these new towns.
By the way, were you ever asked to be a “panorama”? I once had that honor. A lady came to my house one Sunday morning, and explained that her husband was dreadfully depressed over a fall in stocks or something, and she knew I could be “so amusing” if I chose, and wouldn’t I get into her carriage and go with her to amuse said husband, and be a sort of panorama for the poor man? “I don’t want him to be in the panorama,” she said, “nor of the panorama; I want you just to be the panorama by yourself.” I was forced to decline this singular appeal, glad as I should have been to cheer her dumpy spouse.
Why, oh why is it, that if persons have the slightest power of being what is vaguely called “entertaining,” they are expected to be ever on duty at the call of any one who feels a desire for inexpensive diversion?
At one hotel I sat by the side of an odd old man, a retired tobacco merchant of great wealth, who was ready for conversation with all newcomers, and who seemed to feel that I was not doing my full share as an entertainer for the masses. He also had the unusual habit of speaking his thoughts aloud, whether complimentary or otherwise, in frank soliloquy, like that absent-minded Lord Dudley whom Sydney Smith alludes to, as meeting and greeting him with effusive cordiality, and then saying,
But my friend at my elbow had very little of the
“Ahem! I hear you can be funny.” No response from person addressed. Then to himself: “I don’t much believe she can do anything—don’t look like it.” To me: “Well, now, if you
I replied: “Mr. Brushwood, I understand you are a dealer in tobacco?”
“Yes, mum; and you won’t find finer tobacker anywhere in this world than what’s got my name on it. Here’s a picture of my store. Why, Brushwood’s tobacker is known all over the United States.”
“Yes? Well, when I notice you freely distributing that tobacco, bunches of your choicest brands, papers of the very best for chewing, cigarettes by the dozen, in the parlor evenings, I’ll follow on just behind you, and try to amuse as a condensed circus. I’m not lacking in philanthropy. I only need to be roused by your noble example, sustained by your influence.”
Brushwood looked disgusted, grunted his disapproval, backed his chair out from the table, and as he walked to
