surprises." Of
course, we climbed the hill, and soon found ourselves in a veritable
fairyland. We were on a spur of the mountain which spread out in a
plateau covered with beautiful turf. Rich trees surrounded it on three
sides, while on the other it was open to the sea view, revealing to us
the curving beach of Santa Barbara, miles away, with the white breakers
dashing upon the shore. The great deep beyond was dim and empurpled
with the haze, while all around us was a garden glowing with fruits and
flowers of kinds that were rare and beautiful, and for the most part
strange to us.

After enjoying all this under the guidance of our hostess, who bestowed
La France roses and American Beauties among us with liberal hands, we
were invited into her house. This was a rambling, one-story structure,
beautifully planned, and filled with treasures of art from many climes.
The lady of the place gradually let us know in the most simple way that
she had travelled far and wide. She was at home in India, and had
passed through the principal countries of the world. We spent a good
long time in this charmed spot. We were offered refreshment, and left
with a sense of gracious hospitality offered in a most graceful way.
Her blue jean working dress, for she lived almost at work in her
garden, became her well. The only consciousness she showed that she
might have wished it otherwise was as she prepared to escort us to our
brake; she discarded her sunbonnet and donned coquettishly a little
white one of muslin, which, there was no denial, became her better than
that she wore at her lovely work.

We waved her farewell as we descended from "Samarcand," the name of her
beautiful place, the site of which she herself had selected, planning
also her home and all its beauties of tree and flower and fruit.

The poet of the party put his impressions of the whole affair in verse,
and here it is:

SAMARCAND

SANTA BARBARA

How can we speak the glad surprise
Which met us on that morning ride--
The glory of the boundless skies,
The mountains in their stately pride!

And greater yet the misty deep,
Which, huge and vast, swept out afar
In dreaming beauty, silent sleep,
Which storm, it seemed, could never mar.

But better than the boughs which hung
With golden fruit and blossoms sweet,
And better than the flowers which clung,
Were words which there our hearts did greet.