cook for
me, my worst clothes and my best picnic lunch went into the motor, and I
followed. I think my family expected me back next day, when I bade them
a loving farewell. Not I! My spirit was craving silence. I wanted not to
curl my hair or be neat or polite or a good mother, or any of the things
I usually try to be, for just one week. Longer, and I would be lonely
and homesick.

It was a lovely day. The coast road to San Diego runs through orange
groves for miles, and the perfume of the blossoms hung about us till we
came to the sea, where a salt breeze blew away the heavy sweetness. I
lunched on the sand and watched the waves for an hour. There, at least,
are endless re-enforcements! As fast as the front ranks break more come
always to fill their places.

I felt no hurry, as the Smiling Hill-Top is some fifteen miles nearer
Pasadena than San Diego--an easy day's run--and I had no engagements,
but at last my impatience to see how much our garden had grown started
me once more on my way, and we arrived at our wicket gate in the late
afternoon. There were twenty-seven keys on the ring the real-estate
agent gave me--twenty more than caused so much trouble at Baldpate--but
none fitted, so I had the chauffeur lift the gate bodily from its hinges
and I was at home!

In California things grow riotously. Grandparents who haven't seen their
grandsons for years, and find that they have shot up from toddling
babies to tall youths, must feel as I did when I saw the vines and
shrubs, especially the banana trees planted only six months before! The
lawn over which I had positively wept lay innocent and green--almost
English in its freshness. The patio was entrancing with blooming vines.
The streptasolen, which has no "little name," as the French say, was
like a cascade of flame over one end of the wall. The place was ablaze
with it. The three goldfish in the fountain seemed as calm as ever, and
apparently have solved the present problem of the high cost of living,
for they don't have to be fed at all. The three had picked up what they
needed without human aid. I really felt like patting them on the head,
but that being out of the question, I was moved to rhyme:

"I wish I were a goldfish,
All in a little bowl;
I wouldn't worry whether
I really had a soul.
I'd glide about through sun and shade
And snatch up little gnats,
My heaven would be summer
My hell--well, call it cats!"

All th