s the botas with a corduroy suit at dinner at
hotel, and doesn't know at all how comical an appearance he presents.
The very next to pass is one of the pioneers, who, although worth a
million or more, puts on no style, and surveys the mongrel in front with
a twinkle in his eye. Every one should own a horse or pony or burro
here, for the various drives are the greatest charm of the place.
Through all Southern California the happy children ride to school, where
the steeds, fastened to fence in front of building, wait patiently in
line, like Mary's lamb. But in Santa Barbara you see mere tots on
horseback, who look as if it were no new accomplishment. I believe the
mothers put them on gentle ponies to be cared for, or safe, as mothers
in general use the cradle or high-chair. One of the old Mexican
residents of Santa Barbara, when over eighty years of age, had the
misfortune to break his leg. He lay in bed uneasily until a surgeon
could be summoned and the fractured bones set and duly encased in
plaster. He then insisted on being carried out and placed upon his
favorite horse, where he sat during each day with patient serenity until
the damage was repaired by nature.

The drives are all delightful. You cannot make a mistake; there are
twenty-eight drives distinct and beautiful. Those best known are, to the
Mission Canon, to the Lighthouse, to Montecito and Carpenteria, Cooper's
Ranch, through the far-famed Ojai Valley, and the stage or coaching trip
to San Luis Obispo, not forgetting La Vina Grande (the big grapevine),
the trunk eighteen inches in diameter, foliage covering 10,000 square
feet, producing in one year 12,000 pounds of grapes; and the Cathedral
Oaks. I jotted down a few facts at the Lighthouse _a la_ Jingle in
_Pickwick Papers_: gleaming white tower, black lantern, rising from neat
white cottage, green window-shutters, light 180 feet above sea-level,
fine view from balcony, fields of young barley down to water's edge,
bluest blue in sea and sky, the lamp holds only one quart of oil,
reflectors do big business, considering, throwing the light 417 miles.

The keeper, a woman, has been there over thirty years, never goes away
for a single night, trim, quaint, and decided, doesn't want to be
written up, will oblige her, don't believe a woman ever did so much good
with a quart of kerosene daily before. Been a widow a long time, heard
of one woman, wife of lighthouse-keeper, he died, she too stout to be
gotten out o