An Appreciation of Florence Fernald

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Marian Hcbcrl

Ui This Issue 1 MY DAUGHTER, MARIAN HEBERT COYOTES, LAMBS AND AN OLD CALIFORNIA ADOBE 10 14 OH, MR. PRESIDENT AN APPRECIATION OF FLORENCE FERNALD . . . . 15 BOOK REVIEW—JOURNAL OF JOSE LONGINGS MARTINEZ VOL. VIII, NO. 2

16 SUMMER, 1962

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NOTICIAS QUARTERLY BULLETIN OF THE SANTA BARBARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY

My Daughter, Marian Hebert

By Luella Hebert Marian Hebert was born on June 5th, 1899, in Spencer, Iowa. At the age of four, she had scarlet fever, and this sickness left her with hearing in only one ear. When she was five, she showed such artistic ability in needle work that some of the things she had done were entered in an exhibition in a local fair. Prizes were offered for the best work done by girls from five to fifteen years of age. Marian’s entree took the top prize.

When she was seven, she started school, where she received the top grades. In 1911, the family moved to Three Forks, Montana. Marian at tended the public school in this community. She graduated as validictorian of her class five years later, in 1916. She won a scholarship to the University of Montana, in Missoula, in which institution she majored in matematica and physics. She completed the usual four-year course in three years and was awarded a teaching fellowship in the University of Washington, at Seattle. She was in this university only a few months when she contracted tuberculosis and was taken to a sanitarium, where she remained for almost a year. While in this hospital, even though she was flat on her back she kept her hands busy tatting. The pieces that she made in this way were bought by the nurses as fast as she could make them; and, in this way, she earned $300, which sum paid her expenses at the hospital.

Because she wasn’t very strong after she was discharged from the sani tarium, the doctor told us that she could be moved to a warmer climate.

Following this advice, we moved to Whittier in 1923. While living there, Ma rian took a correspondence course in art with the Chicago Art School. Her instructor gave her so much encouragement that, when we moved to Santa Barbara in 1925, she entered the State Teachers College, taking courses m art and in California school law.

Following graduation from the Teachers College, in 1929, she attended the Community Art School, where she studied etching under Mr. Edward Borein. When he retired, she took over the teaching of his classes for two years. Following this, she taught weaving to the handicapped at the Neigh borhood House. She also had classes in leather tooling, bookbinding, drawing, and watercolor painting in the Adult Education Department here. During 1

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Marion Hebert

this period, she did etching and water-color painting at home, but she also studied radio.

At the beginning of the World War, she went to Los Angeles and did war work in the Bendix Aviation Corporation, receiving her silver wings in that work. She was then called to be head of the art department of the Mary Harden Baylor College, in Belton, Texas. During her years in this college, she exhibited her prints in Europe and in the larger cities of this country.

The Library of Congress, in Washington, D.C., purchased several of her prints for its permanent exhibition. She also took a great many prizes with her prints and watercolors in various exhibitions, among which was the Henry B. Shope Prize of the Etching Society of New York. She took a summer course in watercolor portraiture taught by the famous painter, Elliott O’Hara. She also went to summer sessions of the Boston University, graduat ing with the degree of Master of Arts.

During all these years she was plagued with ill health and was frequently in the hospital. Arthritis attacked her hands and for thirty years she suffered 2

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Son Juan Capistrano Mission.

from this crippling disease. In 1957, she was in such poor health that she resigned her position at the University and came home to Santa Barbara.

She passed away on July 15th, 1960.

At the time of her death, she was a member of several organizations, among which were the Kappa Delta Pi (an organization for honor students at Santa Barbara College), The American Association of University Women, the League of Contemporary Arts (at Temple, Texas), the Texas Fine Arts League, and the Santa Barbara Art Association.

Marian Hebert was a direct descendant of John and Pricilla Alden through her mother, whose great-great-grandfather, Nathan Gould, in 1801 married Ester Alden, the granddaughter of John and Pricilla.

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Sonomo Mission.

Beavertail Cactus.

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ss The Campenile of St. Anthony's Seminary.

Coyotes, Lambs and an Old California Adobe

By Frances Cooper Kroll Have you ever tried to raise thirteen orphan lambs on a bottle? Well, I did! It happened this way: My brother. Bill, and I had just said good-bye to Pablo, the Basque sheep-herder, standing between his two bright-eyed dogs, their raised pointed ears alert as always for a sudden command, when I noticed something move, ever so slightly, under a sack on the ground near the open flap of the tent.

“Lepe?” I asked.

Pablo nodded and went on to tell me in his soft voice, with its slurred Pyrenean accent, that the little lamb was dying—its mother had died two nights before. He had done everything he could to save it—but it was no use—it was too weak even to lift its head when an unwilling ewe, bereaved of her own offspring, was forcibly held above it, in an attempt to get it to nurse, And, he added, “I am very busy during the lambing season—it is difficult to give the time—” Bill, turning in his saddle, called to me to hurry—it was late. I gathered up my reins and started to press my heels against my horse’s sides, then stop ped. There had been something about that scarcely perceptible movement under the sack, that^—^“Hand me the lepe, Pablo!” I heard myself saying.

“I’ll take it back with me.”

The bearded herder looked up at me with his dark, melancholy eyes.

“But it will not live. Perhaps it is better so. It is so very small and weak. The Senorita has already eleven little ones down at the adobe.” He glanced toward my waiting brother. “And with the one the Patron has under his arm—to feed so many on the bottle takes much time.”

I thought of my adopted lepes waiting for me in their pen back of the wood-shed, their wet noses pressed through the wire fence—they must be terribly hungry.

“Come along, Fran!” Bill was really growing impatient.

I urged my horse closer to the tent. “Hurry, Pablo—hand it up to me!”

He raised his heavy shoulders in a slow, expressive shrug, and, stooping, lifted the sack. From nearby came the plaintive bleating of the ewes and lambs, already corraled for the night. I buttoned up my leather jacket, for it was growing colder. The two dogs, in this idle moment, tilted their dark heads as they watched Pablo—watched him gently strip from the limp little body the skin of the dead lamb he had tied over it, in the hope of deceiving the ewe who had lost hers. Then he lifted the lamb up to me. I saw that it had a black spot on one of its ears.

“If it does die,” I told myself, as I looked down at it, “It won’t be alone and under that filthy old sack.” Turning my horse, I joined my brother.

It had been a heavy storm. If followed by others it boded a fine, pros perous year. With the warm days that would come at intervals, later the range, now so dark and grim, would gradually turn young and green with renewed life. The importance of rain, so deeply ingrained into the fibre of our beings, was always with us.

I took the lead. The trail was not yet dangerously slippery, for we were following the rim of the canyon, and it was still level.

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“There’s our friend waiting for us. Bill motioned with his chin across to the other side.

Earlier in the day, when we had ridden up to the sheep-camp to take Pablo his weekly provisions, we had watched the fat, sleek coyote slowly moving along, parallel to us, on the other side of the canyon. When we stopped, he stopped—when we moved on, so did he, his eyes never leaving us. It was not hunger—he looked too well-fed for that. It was just plain curiosity or the loneliness that aroused that relentless, determined intent to keep us in his sight—always far-off, but always, always watching. Perhaps, many hundreds of years ago, the ancestors of that vigilant follower across the canyon had been the pampered pets of Inca or Mayan kings; groomed by slaves and collared with bands of precious beads and rare feathers, they may have played their parts in the glory of those lavish courts. And it may be that two or more of them, punished cruelly for some misdemeanor, had escaped and fled to the north, to survive and multiply, while the civilization of the masters they had left, had eventually perished in some mysterious way, leaving only as material evidence of having once existed, great pyramids of stone, carved gods of jade, and jewelry of the purest beaten gold. Cen turies of struggling for life, in these new lands, possibly had not entirely blotted out, in these dog-animals, the memory of that former existence, of having been loved and cared for—had not quite killed an atavistic need to be near man.

We were starting down the ridge of the Rinconada, when Bill called, “Look out, Fran! This mud’s going to be bad. Keep headed straight down or you’ll end up with a broken leg.”

“And a dead lepe,” I shouted over my shoulder.

“Oh, he’s probably dead already.”

I smiled to myself. I knew better—he wasn’t. Through the damp fabric of my riding skirt I could feel the faint pulsing beat of a feeble little heart.

Suddenly I cared deeply about saving that orphan lamb. It became important, vital, to me.

The trail was steeper now—and slippery. With one hand gripping the horn of my saddle, my arm pressed down to secure the wooly body that sagged across in front of me, my other hand working hard with the reins to prevent we my horse from turning sideways, I managed to keep headed down until reached more level ground. Then I shifted my little lepe to a less uncom fortable position for both of us, and wriggled my fingers to relieve their numbness. Looking over my shoulder, I saw, far back on the hillside, the coyote—still there—still watching us. But he would come no closer now ;unous or lonely as he might be—till darkness made safe his stealthy prowling.

The sun was still touching with pale gold the dark sharp outline of the Santa Rosa Range behind us, but the valley below was softly blurred with deepening shadows when we reached the road and better going. The river was fairly high for the Santa Ynez, as we crossed it—very wintery, fringed as it was with naked willows and weird twisted alders, to which still clung a few wrinkled, pallid leaves. In the distance we could just make out the low red-tiled roof of the adobe—dinner and a warm fire would be welcome.

We passed the coldly-bleak empty shearing sheds, then the large barns, their weathered roofs showing slickly clean after the rain, and, from within 11

we could hear the great work horses moving heavily about, as they munched and tossed the hay in their deep mangers.

From the road, as we went up to the adobe, we looked down upon a slender thread of blue that rose lazily from the chimney of the bunk house.

I had not realized that darkness was so close upon us until I saw the lights through the windows of the men’s dining room. Then a door on the back porch opened, and my sister-in-law, looking fresh and pretty, stood waiting for us. “A hot bath for you, Fran!” she announced emphatically.

“You must be frozen.”

“I’ll have to feed my lepes, first,” I told her. She laughed and said that she had already done it—and she with a real ten-months old baby of her own to care for.

You’re a remarkable gal. I said, as I slid off my saddle, with the lepe inder my arm. “But the bath will have to wait. Where did I put that medicine dropper!”

It was slow work. The first few drops of warm milk slipped out of the side of the pale little mouth—then one didn’t—there was a slight shudder, and I saw his throat contract. I let him rest, then started again. He swal lowed a few more drops, but his tired, weak body scarcely rose and fell with even the effort of breathing, so seeing that he could stand no more, I took my hand from under his head and, wrapping him in a warm old blanket, put him in a box and left him in the now deserted men’s dining room.

Sometime after midnight, I awoke. Lighting the lamp that stood on the table by my bed, I went in to look at my patient. He was still alive. I warmed some milk over a small kerosene stove in the kitchen, and, armed with the medicine dropper, went back to him. Slowly—very slowly, resting for long intervals, he swallowed it, drop by drop.

A few coals were pinkly glowing through the gray ashes in the corner fireplace, and the room was still comfortably warm. The cook had set the long table for the men’s early breakfast—knives and forks meticulously straight, the heavy white coffee cups turned upside down. “Bless old Chung,” I said to myself—he of that generation of Chinese, who had within themselves the greatness of loyalty—to their families in their own far-off country—and to the people they served in this alien land.

There was no wind blowing; I could see against the window pane the immobility of the thick cypress branch that fell against it. Thinking that it was good to be alone at times, I sat there in the stillness of the night, when suddenly an almost violent and acute awareness of the beauty of this old adobe house swept over me—stronger than I had ever felt it before. Con structed solely for shelter and use, it had in its unconscious simplicity a per fection rarely achieved today. And old as it was, only two families had ever enjoyed the privilege of possessing it.

My thoughts turned to the man who had come from Spain so long ago, by order of his king, to divide and bestow these rich, fruitful lands, and of his retaining for his own this fine ranch with its winding artery of river, and naming it for his bride’s patron Saint—Santa Rosa. Perhaps it was her appreciation of beauty that influenced him to choose the site for his house high on the hill, with its fair wide view, instead of down below, near the water sources and barns as was the usual custom.

I thought of the great timbers cut by the Indians in the far-off San 12

Rafael mountains, dragged down and hewn by hand—of the heavy roof above me, with its red tiles, each one moulded by dark patient fingers—of the protecting three-foot walls about me, and as I sat there alone in that quiet room, suddenly, clearly, I saw before me a small Indian child standinher brown cheeks streaked with tears, sobbing and lonely, because she had lost her greatest treasure—her doll. The summer before this, over one hun dred years later, it, a crude pathetic plaything, had been found imbedded in these walls, by workmen cutting through them to make a nursery for another child.

Then gently I was brought back to reality; my little lepe had slightly raised his head, and was regarding me with sai sunken eyes. I reached for the medicine dropper, then stopped— Cutting raggedly across the peaceful quietness of the night, came a distant chilling sound—not baying, more like laughter—jeering, hysterical and menacing— “Aha, Mr. Coyote,” I thought, as I looked down at my lepe, “Here’s one little morsel you won’t get!” Filling the medicine dropper, I knelt again

by the box.

It was some time before my patient was strong enough to join the other twelve lambs—to follow me, as they did, whenever I let them out of their pen—to come racing when I called. It must have been an amusing sight, but at times they were a decided nuisance—to sit on the lawn in front of the adobe, and have them swarm over me when I wanted to read—to hear a bleating chorus blare out whenever I came in sight^—to have them push past me and crowd into the front hall, even into the living room if I were not quick enough in closing the door after me. But I loved them—most of all the frail one with the black spot on his ear. I loved the tapping sound of their little hooves on the porch, and I was happy because they needed me.

We took long walks—all fourteen of us—up the hill behind the adobe, where they would play, leap and kick in the air, and even climb into the low scrub oaks—to visit the horses at the barns, and, best of all was the swift run down the narrow, twisting path that led to a shallow stream, along which grew thickly, crisp green watercress.

Eventually they graduated from the bottle to the pail, and life was made easier for me. I spoiled them, I know, but I have no regrets. Our parting to came all too soon—they to go up to Pablo at the sheep camp, I to return my studies and boarding school.

That winter, in a letter to me from my brother, he mentioned that Pablo was ... constantly complaining about the Senorita’s lepes—they created a great disturbance among the sheep and were a source of much annoyance to the dogs. Whatever their faults were, in spile of Pablo’s irritation, they were very dear to me, and I longed to see them again.

The following spring when I returned to the ranch, one of the first things I did was to ride up to the sheep camp. It was a clear crisp day. A slight breeze gave motion to all the growth about me—the alders, the willows, the chaparral—and brought with it the sweet clean air of open spaces, that I had so missed during the winter I had spent in the city. My horse, happy to be ridden again after months at pasture, tossed his head and pranced with skittish vajiity; under the impact of his hooves, the crushed green grass sent up faint puffs of damp, earthy fragrance.

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Pablo greeted me with much ceremony and talk about the fine year we were enjoying. When we walked to where the sheep were grazing, the dogs, seeing me, wagged their tails in wild excitement and started toward me, but Pablo ordered them abruptly back to their posts.

My eyes traveled over the sheep, intently feeding below me. Gradually, as, under my scrutiny the wooly animals began to take on separate identities, I was certain that, though they had grown greatly, I recognized some of my lepes. Stepping forward, I called to them as I used to, certain that they would come running to me, joyously and expectantly as they had always done.

I stood waiting, waiting—but nothing happened. Puzzled, I turned to Pablo. He looked quickly away from me, but not before I had caught, from under the wide brim of his weatherbeaten old hat, the sly, complacent smirk of complete satisfaction.

“Well,” I thought, with rising irritation, “I’ll show you!”

Again I stepped forward, calling coaxingly and sweetly—then I fairly shouted, but not a sheep raised its head—not one of my lepes deigned to look my way—not even the frail, little one with the black spot on his ear.

Oh, Mr. President!*

By Mary G. Whytlaw In my gingham dress, pigtails swaying, swinging on the garden gate, I felt a great sweep of emotion surge over me as old Aunt Ellen, a rock-ribbed, red-hot Republican, emphatically set forth her political faith to her friendly neighbors. Aunt Ellen’s silver hair shone in the sunlight, her tall, raw-boned figure lent force to her arguments, and her blue-gray eyes seemed to see far into the future. Aunt Ellen read the Congressional Record from cover to cover, she knew what she was talking about, and I was immensely proud of her.

It was the summer of 1912 and the little suburban town of Cranford, New Jersey, was agog with excitement. William Howard Taft and Theodore Roosevelt were carrying on one of the bitterest campaigns the country has ever known and the two contestants for the White House were about to ad dress the townspeople.

Though Aunt Ellen was in her seventies and I only a little girl, I wanted to match her enthusiasm for the Republican Party’s true candidate with all my might and main. To uphold the honor of the G.O.P. and to promote the good cause I enlisted Aunty’s parrot, teaching him to shout “Hurrah for Taft—hurrah for Taft,” till he shrilled it with such gusto day after day, that all passers-by knew just where our political affiliations lay, and Aunt Ellen was delighted. Carefully she had explained that Theodore Roosevelt had committed the unpardonable political crime of splitting the Republican Party, and when he came to town to harrangue a political gathering, she sent me down to hiss.

I was in a flutter of happiness the day President William Howard Taft arrived to speak, for, through me, Aunt Ellen planned to show her allegiance to the rightful representative of the Republican Party. In my prettiest and ●With permission of Parents' Magazine.

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most attractive dress, my hair beautifully brushed, in my arms a great bouquet of flowers picked from her own garden. Aunt Ellen told me to find a place near the speaker’s platform. I should clap enthusiastically when Mr. Taft finished his address, follow right after him with the Secret Service men, and present President Taft with the bouquet of flowers as he stepped into his waiting automobile.

True to my instructions, at the close of the ceremonies, I kept close to the President’s coat tails and reached the car in time. The President stood chatting to local Republicans. With his great frame and huge bulk he seemed to tower above everyone. His genial smile and gracious manner were charm ing the group of men and women around him as I stood breathless with excitement, fighting back my shyness, waiting for the moment I could make my short speech. When he turned to enter his car I was by his side in a flash.

“Mr. President—Oh, Mr. President!” I said, with intense pride, “My Aunt asked me to give you this bouquet of flowers.”

William Howard Taft beamed down upon me with his gentle and kind ly smile, and took the flowers from my extended arms.

Why, thank you little girl—thank you,” he said and motioning to the car he urged warmly, “Step into the car and take a ride, little girl. Step i.: m and take a ride.”

I was covered with confusion. I hadn’t expected such an invitation. I was alarmed.

Oh, no, Mr. President—Oh no! I gasped, and looking earnestly up into his kindly face, exclaimed, “My Mother never lets me take rides with strange men.”

The President threw back his head and laughed. It was a great, hearty laugh that seemed to ripple up from the tips of his toes. Others caught the contagion of his merriment and the amusement spread through the crowd.

William Howard Taft stepped into his car and smilingly waved a fond fare well as the auto moved off down the street.

My heart pounding, I ran all the way home to Aunt Ellen and poured out my story to her. She listened, sat down quietly, and shook her head sadly.

But all she said was, “Just to think—you might have ridden all over town with the President of the United States of America!”

An Appreciation of Florence Fernald

By Catherine Wills Years before I came to make Santa Barbara my home, I spent several winters here, placing my son in the Deane School. It was then I met Florence Fernald, and through our mutual love of music we became friends. She was very busy teaching piano at that time, but this did not interfere with many elegant and delightful dinner parties at that charming old house. Those were the days of full dress always for a dinner party. The fine, long dining room and table, glistening with crystal and silver, a huge crystal chandelier, made a picture to remember! Then old Reggie, Florence’s brother, playing a most genial host!

Many people importantly musical were entertained there. There was always music after dinner. One night I remember especially: The famous 15

pianist, Leopold Godowsky, teacher of Florence, was guest of honor. He gave us some unforgettable music and later joined Florence in a duet or two.

Some time later, I returned here to make my home; and when my young daughter developed a very promising voice, Florence became always interested in her career. Now my daughter is touring and singing in Eu rope. When on a very short visit to us in California, Florence asked us to stop by one day and let her have a visit with Patricia. Florence had been very ill for some time, but she had her handsome bed moved into the music room, where she could look at her beloved piano and almost touch it!

On the afternoon we dropped by to see her, she sat propped by gay pillows and looking almost her old self. I was amazed by her vitality! She and Pat discussed things musical for almost an hour. I believe both thor oughly enjoyed that visit. Two weeks later, Florence, that warm, kind soul, departed this life, leaving many friends who miss her.

BOOK REVIEW

Journal of Jose Longinos Martinez JOHN HOWELL

1961

“Journal of Jose Longinos Martinez” was newly translated and edited

by Lesley Byrd Simpson for the Santa Barbara Historical Society and was published by John Howell in a beautifully bound and printed limited edition.

The translation itself fills about half of the 120 or so pages; the re mainder of the book is devoted to the excellent introduction, the detailed itinerary, the glossary and other supplementary material.

Longinos, the name used by the translator, was a surgeon living in Madrid, who had acquired a considerable reputation as a naturalist, learned in botany and in minerology. He, along with another scientist, was com missioned by the reigning sovereign of Spain, Charles HI, to make a meth odical examination of the products of his “fertile dominions of New Spain” (Mexico and the two Californias). This commission was issued in 1786 and Longinos set out from Mexico City in late 1791.

The translator, who has made a thorough study of the Spanish and Mexican archives, reports in the introduction that Longinos was erratic and quarrelsome, and at loggerheads with the director, one Sesse. After a period of bickering in Mexico City, Longinos was directed to proceed with only an incompetent assistant, who was sent back to Mexico City after a short time. The route of the expedition was from Mexico City to San Bias, then the length of Lower California, called at that time Old California, next to New California, now our California, and finally from San Diego to Monterey which he reached in September of 1792.

In the introduction the translator cautions the reader not to give too much credence to the statements of Longinos as he was not as truthful as a scientist should be and as he was given to exaggeration. For example, he claims to have covered 4,000 miles in 4^/2 months of exploration, a feat which 16

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9>lat?tine5 Moles and Observations of the Nalura/ist ofthe BotanicalExpedition in Old and New California and the South Coast

t7BUX7BZ Newly translated and edited by Lesley Byrd Simpson for The Santa Barbara Historical Society

PUBLISHED BY JOHN HOWELL—BOOKS MCMLXI

Reproduction of title page.

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us was manifestly impossible. However, in spite of his inaccuracies, he gives an interesting picture of the mineral and plant resources and of the native Indians (he calls them “gentiles” in the Journal).

The remarkable feature of the Journal is that it contains practicaUy no mention of the missions and the padres. Of course the missions at that time dominated the economic and cultural life of the communities as well as the religious life. Therefore it is strange, to say the least, that pmginos should entirely ignore the missions. The translator explains that Longinos was a devotee of the new Cult of Nature, and that to those cultists the mis sions were an anachronism. It is also odd that there is no mention of our naturalist in the early records of California, in spite of the fact that the missions were the only caravansaries and so he could not avoid stopping at them. Apparently the padres and Longinos had no interest in each other.

The botanical resources of the areas visited are described in considerable detail and an appraisal is made of the economic value of the indigenous plants and of those which might be introduced.

The mineral resources also have received much attention and have been tabulated. One gets the impression however that owing to the many miles covered in a short period, Longinos did not have the time nece^ary for careful prospecting and for properly evaluating minerals. perhaps has relied upon hearsay and even drawn upon his imagination. He had to lind something to justify the expedition. However, there is no doubt that areas between Mexico City and the west coast are highly mineralized and that many mines, particularly those producing silver, were in operation at the time of the visit of Longinos to the area. He speaks of one silver mine which then was employing 15,000 men, a statement which would appear to be an exag geration.

Longinos found many hot springs of varying temperatures which in his opinion might have great value as health resorts. He speculated, as other naturalists, upon the source of heat. There were several theories which seem quaint in the light of present-day knowledge. Longinos s theory was that the heat was due to the presence underground of great masses of iron pyrites, which we might say “was not so hot.”

The most interesting parts of the narrative to the average reader are those dealing with the characteristics, habits and customs of the ‘gentiles as he calls the unconverted natives. Longinos apparently was more interested in the natives he encountered than in the natural resources upon which he was commissioned to report. As he proceeds from the center of civilization in Mexico into the regions we would call the frontier, where the natives have not been entirely reduced to peonage, he places more and more emphasis on the human element and less upon the material aspects of the region. In niany in places he found the natives still living in their ranchenas pretty much the same state as before the missions were established, which was rather recently as far as parts of Lower California and most of New California, or our California, were concerned.

He found a great diversity of languages, as he relates that in one corndialects were spoken, paratively small area fourteen different languages or which greatly com plicated the interpreter problem; in some cases communication was possible only through three or four interpreters.

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He visited one tribe in the vicinity of the Colorado River delta which, it was said, was addicted to cannibalism and that the tribesmen particularly relished a tender young neophyte who might have left the protection of the mission. The Indians perhaps considered his fate a just punishment for his apostasy.

To those who live in the Santa Barbara area the Journal is particularly interesting in that Longinos goes into more detail in his description of the region and the natives, especially the Channel or Cumash tribe. He found this tribe much further advanced on the road toward civilization and more adept in their handicraft than any other “gentiles” he had encountered.

His explanation of this comparatively high state of civilization was that probably a Chinese had been shipwrecked on their coast and had taught the skills which were so outstanding compared to those of the other Indians of the area. This theory has a striking similarity to that of Mr. Harold Gladwin as to the source of the Mayan and Inca civilizations.

Selden Spaulding mentions this theory in his valuable historical work on Santa Barbara and Southern California, “Adobe Days”. He says that it is not easy to accept the negative view and cites as a basis for the positive view allusions in ancient Chinese literature to a voyage to an unknown land, which could be California. Also, Captain Adams, in the Forrester, in 1812 found a Japanese ship helpless off the coast of Santa Barbara after being adrift for 17 months.

Longinos noted the mutual distrust and hostility displayed among the groups of “gentiles” and the great diversity of language. These facts might be the reason why the superior cultural attainments of the Indians in the Santa Barbara group were not disseminated among surrounding tribes.

Longinos tells of a “volcano” between Santa Barbara and La Purisima and gives a rather lurid description of the fire, ashes, and noxious gases issuing there from which prevented his approaching closely. He obviously was drawing upon his imagination in this case, for the area mentioned has not been volcanic in the last million or so years. Later writers have surmised that probably someone had described to him a burning oil spring; oil springs and tar pits were not uncommon in the area. Moreover, Longinos gives a rather detailed description of the La Brea pits in Los Angeles, which he must have visited.

The primary purpose of Longinos’s expedition was to discover and catalog the natural resources of Western Mexico and the Californias and to make a report to his sovereign. He did find many resources of value and duly reported them. However, no effect was made to exploit them in the half century before the Americans took over just before the gold rush.

The Spanish and Mexicans confined their exploitation to the grass on the hills, which the cattle turned into hides and tallow. These hides and tallow were sold to the “hidedrodgers” from Boston. While the “hide and tallow” economy may have made meagre use of California’s resources, it did support a very pleasant, leisurely life for the ranchers, one which might be preferable to the hectic hurly burly of present day existence.

Therefore, though Longinos did not accomplish much as far as develop ment of California’s resources is concerned, he did provide us with a lively 19

and interesting, if not wholly accurate, account of life as he found it among the “gentiles.”

Undoubtedly, Longinos’s Journal has gained a great deal from the able translation and editing by Mr. Lesley Byrd Simpson; also by his helpful introduction. On the whole the Journal is a valuable addition to the history of this area.

Glen Waters

Golf Hazards a Half Century Ago

By Edward S. Spaulding In the years about the turn of the century, the Montecito Country Club was located near the Channel Drive on what is still known as “Fairway Road. (Before this, it had been located on land now in use by the Biltmore Hotel). The nine-hole golf course lay on the land immediately to the west and north of the clubhouse (which was located about one hundred yards to the south of the present Music Academy Building); the tennis court was on the land immediately below the club house and immediately west of Depot Road; and across the Channel Drive to the south was the pool—the Pacific Ocean—and an ample pool it was.

All the facilities of the Club were enjoyed by the club members, of course; but for the townspeople who, for one reason or another, were not members of the Club, and for the many guests who came to this com munity for visits of from two to six months, there was no golf course avail able. Earlier, there had been briefly a golf course, maintained by the hotels, on the land to the west of the intersection of Padre and Santa Barbara Streets.

1 remember that, among other visitors to the town, Andrew Carnegie played there, driving to and from the course in a carriage behind a hired team of horses. But this course was neither a good nor a permanent one. To many Santa Barbarans, the situation, as far as golf was concerned, was not a happy one.

One day, Mr. H. G. Chase called me on the telephone and invited me to be his guest for lunch at the newly rebuilt Arlington Hotel. Accepting this unexpected invitation, I arrived at the Hotel at the proper time on the ap pointed day and found nine other guests besides myself assembled there.

Many of the names of these gentlemen have slipped from my mind now, yet I do recall that Edgar Park and George Potter were two of them. Harlow Frink may have been a third one.

After a pleasant lunch, Mr. Chase rose from his place at the head of the large table and spoke to us, telling us graphically and in much detail of the need for a second golf course in the community, one that would be relatively inexpensive as to dues and initiation fees and one that the guests at the hotels, the Arlington, the Potter, Miramar, and the others, could use when they wished to play golf. Mr. Chase made so clear and plain the benefits that would derive to the community from such a second course that, when he asked us if we would consider ourselves to be a body of ten directors duly elected to build such a golf club, we readily agreed to act in this philanthropic capacity.

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In due time, the club house was built on the top of a low, rolling hill to the west of Hope Lake (later the home of Mrs. Sam Stanwood) and the golf course was laid out on the rolling country immediately surrounding this beautiful site. By present day standards, it was not a first rate, or even a second rate, course. TTiough it served its purpose well, as I look back on it now, it is easy to see its many faults and shortcomings. It is easy, also, to see many of its amusing features. At this distance, it is less easy to remember the many and severe handicaps under which it was laid out and main, tained.

Probably the greatest of these handicaps that plagued us was the Club’s lack of sufficient water (to say nothing of money) to maintain anything even approaching a modern course, whether well or badly laid out. Luckily, most other courses in Southern California were faced with the same difficulties as were we, and so they were less noticeable problems than they would be

today.

Our so-called greens were oiled and sanded circles across which the golf balls rolled almost with the speed of ivory balls on a billiard table.

Actually, one humorist characterized the game as “mountain billiards” and cow pasture pool”. In late winter and early spring, the fairways, well watered by the rains, were green and soft and very beautiful. In early fall, though they still were beautiful to the eyes of Southern Californians, these same fairways were brown and hard almost as pavement. When, after a stroke, a ball ended up in a depression too deep to be played, in an unfilled gopher hole, for example, the ground rules permitted us to pick it up and drop it behind us over a shoulder as we prayed for a better lie. If we became involved deeply in one of the few oak trees that grew in or near the center of the fairway, we were allowed to toss the ball out sidewards and, by this means, to free ourselves of the wide-spreading, low branches. These were reasonable rules, we all felt, and they in no way took away from our pleasure in the game.

The course itself was, at first, not well laid out. Indeed, so badly was it laid out that, were it in existence today, it is probable that it would have few, if any, players upon it. The first tee was immediately in front of the wide veranda of the club house that faced the Lake. The fairway ran in a northerly direction, downward and along the sloping hillside. If, on a pleasant day in midsummer, when the ground was hard, one allowed suffi ciently for the eastward slope of this long hillside, it was a poor drive indeed that did not net the driver about double the yardage that he usually can expect today from the same stroke on any well-watered, level grassgrown fairway. This advantage was much appreciated by us, especially when there were many guests on the veranda watching us as, one by one, we took our stances and drove off down the long hillside. From this tee we sometimes made sensational distances with well hit balls.

Once on the level land at the bottom of the hill, the fairway turned to the left, or west, and, following the general course of what is now Via Esperanza, reached the high ground once more. Here it turned again to the left, or southward, and went down the long swail behind the club house almost to its intersection with the main canyon down which Las Palmas Drive now runs to the beach. Here, it turned sharply at right angles and faced the relatively high and very steep ridge that runs in a southerly direc21

tion from the clubhouse. On the exact top of this almost knife ridge was the 7th green. We called it the “Punch Bowl”. It was a circular hole three or four feet deep with steeply sloping sides and the usual oiled sand bottom.

It could be reached easily from the tee below with a “lofter”, to use the name that then was in vogue for the club; but the shot had to be made with some exactness: if it fell short, the ball failed to reach the Punch Bowl and came rolling back down the ridge. If it was too long, the ball over-carried and rolled far down the other side of the ridge. If it was too high, the ball might very well land in the Punch Bowl and then, because of the very hard surface within, it might bounce out and roll down the ridge, usually on the far side. If everything went well and the ball remained on the “green”, then there was the really stiff climb to be made to the top of the ridge.

(Thinking of this hole, one cannot but wonder how the electrically driven carts now in use would have negotiated that steep hillside had that vehicular aid to golfers been in use at that early time.)

Perhaps a single incident that happened on the Goleta Road between the Club and the Town will give a clearer idea of the primitive conditions that prevailed hereabouts than would the narration of several events that took place on the fairway of the course or at the clubhouse: My brother, Albert, owned, and proudly operated a Stoddard-Dayton automobile at this time, This “roadster” was a one-seater”, that is, it had only a front seat wide enough for two, for a driver and one passenger. In the back were two jump seats that could be used in emergencies to carry uncomfortably two additional passengers. This roadster had no top, but it did have the old fashioned, rubber-bulbed horn that was fastened on the outside of the car within convenient reach of the driver’s hand.

As I remember it, there was no pavement on any road between the in tersection of State and Mission Streets and the City of San Jose. During the dry season, Hollister Avenue or, more commonly, the Goleta Road, lay deep in dust that often partly concealed chuck holes of almost every size and depth. It was usual for all automobiles to travel this much used stretch of country road for the most part in second gear, though occasionally, it was prudent for the driver to drop back into low gear. Rarely, he risked travelling in high gear for short distances.

One day, having played his nine holes of golf and having changed his clothes in the club house, Albert climbed into his car and set out for Santa Barbara. As he drove past the wide, front veranda, he saw Mr. George Kaime standing on the porch near the steps, obviously waiting for a ride into town. Albert stopped his car and politely invited the older man to ride with him. Mr. Kaime accepted this invitation and climbed up and into the passenger seat beside Albert. As Mr. Kaime did this, his friend, Mr. E. A. Gilbert, came out of the club house and approached the front steps. Again Albert invited the older gentleman to ride with him and again the invitation was accepted. With some difficulty, Mr. Gilbert climbed into the rear com partment and settled himself in one of the jump seats.

The journey to Santa Barbara began. La Cumbre Road was negotiated without undue incident or accident. It was a dirt road, but the travel on it was not heavy and it was in fair shape. On the Goleta Road, however, condi tions changed for the worse: the Road lay deep in dust and there were many and deep chuckholes. (In those far off days, many a driver took great pride 22

in his ability to “pick his road”, that is, by a quick eye and a certain natural intuition, to be able to drive his car where the road was the least rough.)

Albert, with his car in second gear, was picking his road with great care fulness when he suddenly went into a deep chuck hole that was so nearly filled with dust that he had misread its surface indications. A front wheel went in and out again. Then the rear wheel on Mr. Gilbert’s side went in and down. The rear end of the car went far down, of course; and then the springs, reacting to the thump downward, asserted themselves and shot the rear end up and into the air. Albert, jerking himself around in his front seat, looked to see how his passengers were faring. To his horror and amaze ment, he saw Mr. Gilbert, as it seemed, standing on his head in the middle of the Goleta Road. What had happened was that he had been thrown from his jump seat as though from a catapault and had landed on his head and shoulders in the road. Luckily, the deep dust had in some measure broken

his fall.

From all this it easily can be seen that, in those early days, the game of golf held hazards for the players that, fortunately, are unknown today.

Director's Report The summer Fiesta exhibition and tea for members of the Santa Barbara Historical Society will be held at the Society’s headquarters in the Old Mission on Monday the 9th of July at 4:00 o’clock.

On May 13, 1962, the Santa Barbara Mission was created a national landmark. A handsome plaque was dedicated in a ceremony and the Hon. Bennett T. Gail, of the National Park Service, read a proclamation from the Secretary of the Interior, following which he presented this historic record to Rev. Regis Rohder, O.F.M., Superior of the Old Mission.

April 6 and 7, your director and Mrs. Gledhill attended the fifteenth annual institute of the California Foundation at Stockton, afterward visiting the town of Pollack Pines where we interviewed Henry Dittman, a descendent of Charles Dittman (alias Charlie Brown), otter hunter in the 1840’s, with Nidever. Charlie Brown was the first of the party to discover the Indian woman on St. Nicholas Island. From Henry Dittman, the Society received a copy of the memories of his ancestor.

Following the visit to Pollack Pines, at the State Archives in Sacra mento, we had unexpected pleasure and a fruitful visit with Dr. J. N. Bow man, noted historian and retired state archivist, which resulted in receiving for the Santa Barbara Historical Society information concerning the index ing of the land grants of California and the whereabouts of the vital record of the missions of California.

Dr. Woodrow Borah of the University of California, Berkeley, on a recent visit to the Mexican archives, discovered many volumes of old manu scripts from the College of San Fernando, to his knowledge unrecorded.

Among them were important papers of Father Serra and Lasuen. Realizing the value of his find, he at once had them microfilmed. Our Society has been able to obtain the microfilm positives of this collection of documents and letters.

Walker Tompkins, historian and author, after a year of searching, fin23

ally located the unmarked grave of Jose Lobero in the Santa Barbara Ceme tery, bringing this to the attention of the Lobero Foundation, the Santa Barbara Historical Society and the Tierra De Oro Parlor No. 304 N.D.G.W. They placed a plaque on the grave which was dedicated by these interested organizations on May 5. It was inscribed as follows: “Jose Lobero, 1823-1892, Founder of the Lobero Theatre” Lobero in 1873, with the financial support of Col. W. W. Hollister, built his theatre and brought to the community his music, plays and the opera and created his own orchestra. On September 28th, 1862, Lobero married Clara Cota and later built what we know now as the Dr. Knox home for his mother-in-law, the little brick house on Anacapa Street across from the present Lobero Theatre. He died a pauper, a suicide, and was for a time all but forgotten as he lay in an unmarked grave. However, he grows in historic interest with the passing years.

The County of Santa Barbara is engaged in microfilming all their records. Copies of these microfilms will be stored underground, safe from disaster. Your Society can undertake the care and preservation of these original records and documents from 1850 to 1900.

Important gifts have been received from the United California Bank of historical material of their predecessor, the First National Bank of Santa Barbara, dated from 1870. This is an important recognition from a bank of the Society’s role in preservation. In this gift will be records of Col. W. W. Hollister, the Lincolns and Mortimer Cook, the founder of the orig inal bank.

An interesting gift has been received from Mrs. L. G. Walker of Mr. Kirk Johnson’s saddle of carved leather and silver decorations.

Mr. Edmond B. Montgomery’s gift in memory of Caroline Sellus Ross consists of 12 volumes, “Report of Explorations and Surveys of Railroads from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean”, published by the War Department.

W. Edwin Gledhill

Activity Report—Women's Projects Board It has been said—“A nation that has no regard for its past, can well be worried about its future”. As tangible evidence of this past gradually disappears from the current scene, interest increases in historic relics, records or biographies of pioneers, and in any significant contributions made by them. These are important for they are the foundation stones upon which later generations built our present communities.

In an effort to learn more about Santa Barbara’s early years members of the Women’s Projects Board continue giving time and interest to the restoration of the Judge Charles Fernald House and the Trussell-Winchester Adobe under the aegus of the Santa Barbara Historical Society.

On February 27, 1962, the Women’s Projects Board began its third year of organization. A business meeting was held, following which new officers were elected and installed. Mrs. Gene Harris, chairman, was elected to serve a second term; also elected were the Mmes. Edward Bouton, first 24

vice chairman; John H. Locklin, second vice chairman; Charles P. Harper, corresponding secretary; Leland Crawford, recording secretary; and Miss Mary Chrisman, treasurer. Mrs. Wilson Forbes, a director of the Society, was appointed by Mrs. Harris to serve as liaison officer between that organization and the women’s board.

Other committee chairmen appointed were the Mmes. Robert I. Hoyt, librarian; Alex Funke, Ways and Means; John Locklin, operation of Fernald House, Wilson Forbes, of Trussell-Winchester Adobe; Albert De L’Arbre and George H. Finley, garden; Leo McMahon, acquisitions; Raymond Paine, hospitality; Edward Bouton, membership; Charles Stevens, Jr., Fernald Associate membership; and Philip Wilcox, scrapbook.

Other members of the women’s board who have served previously are: Mmes. K. C. Bowman, Edward Bozenhard, Guy Church Buck, Howard I. Cole, James Dazey, Clarke Gaines, Hamilton Greenough, Vincent Grocott, Paul Jones, Edmund Katenkamp, William Kay, Westbrook Law, Milo T. Maier, Timothy McMahon, Ernest Menzies, Arnott J. Nall, Godwin Pelissero, and Charles T. Stevens, Sr., also Miss Isabel Parry. Mrs. Henry J. Griffiths is an honorary member of the board.

New board members attending this first meeting of the new year were Mmes. Pier Gherini, John J. Hollister, Jr., Robert Ingle Hoyt, Gilbert Loustalot, John T. Rickard, Charles Stevens, Jr., Edward R. Toporeck, and Robert

Williams.

Director W. Edwin Gledhill presented plans for the proposed museum headquarters to be constructed within the Pueblo Viejo area in the near future, after which a social time was enjoyed around the tea table.

The women’s board has two types of memberships—active and associate.

The active group is a “working group” of forty members who can give time to service in such activities as staffing (hostessing at the open house periods on Sunday afternoons and conducting visitors on tours of the premises) or sewing, upholstering, dusting, cleaning, polishing furniture, cataloguing, working on grounds, telephoning, and public relations. The main task of the Fernald Associates is to support any major fund-raising projects which are held, and to assist with the weekly hostessing on Sunday afternoons. Men may join this latter group, and their interest and assistance on the tours is welcomed.

The names of Fernald Associates will be given in Noticias.

a later issue of

Active members who were in charge of hostessing for the house tours during the Spring months were Mmes. Kevin J. Fay (March), Raymond Paine (April), and Paul Jones (May). A special word of appreciation is extended to them and to all of the members who have given their Sunday hours to this project; also to Miss Genet Byfield, who comes two Sunday afternoons a month, as a member of the Volunteer Bureau of our city.

In observance of Conservation Week, Tierra de Oro Parlor, N.D.G.W., on March 18, presented the women’s board with magnolia grandiflora tree, in remembrance of the once magnificent park-like garden which sur rounded the Fernald House in its former location. Miss Jeanne Frederick, president of the parlor, presided. Mrs. Leonard Younger, chairman of the parlor’s conservation committee, was in charge of the program. Among the 25

guests attending were Mayor and Mrs. Edward L. Abbott, Supervisor Joseph J. Callahan, Miss Pearl Chase, Mrs. Ben C. Dismuke, and John H. Hartfeld.

On Monday, February 12, Los Libros Book Club, a newly organized group within the Newcomers Club held a program-tea in the Fernald House.

Miss Rosario Andrea Curletti, local author of “Pathways to Pavements” (1950), gave a review of “Books of Santa Barbara”. Miss Curletti, a friend of Miss Florence Fernald, included in her list several books connected with the Fernald family. Among these were “A County Judge in Arcady” written by Cameron Rogers, son of Judge Fernald’s eldest child, Beatrice, and her second husband, Robert Cameron Rogers; “Trodden Glory”, also written by Rogers, the story of the California poppy; “Memories of a Child’s Early California Days” by 93-year-old Sarah Eliot Blanchard of Santa Paula, whose mother, the former Elizabeth Hobbs, was a sister of Hannah Hobbs Fernald, of North Berwick, Me. Mentioned also was “Santa Barbara and Around There”, (1886) by Edwards Roberts, Beatrice Fernald’s first husband.

Mrs. Charles P. Harper, vice president of Los Libros, introduced Miss Curletti. Mrs. Edward Bouton, club president, presided, and introduced guests, including Mrs. Harry L. Horn of the Welcome Wagon who founded the Newcomers Club several years ago. Both Mrs. Bouton and Mrs. Harper are active members of the Women’s Projects Board.

On April 25, as a part of the 180th birthday celebration of the founding of Santa Barbara, the Women’s Board held open house for the members of the State Park Commission and the State Division of Beaches and Parks and other state officials who were attending these special observances in our city. Touring the Adobe and Fernald House, were Joseph C. HoughtelinD’ chairman of the State Park Commission; Charles A. DeTurk, chief of the new state department of Parks and Recreation; Mrs. Gertrude G. Harriman, Sterling S. Cramer, State Park commissioners, and Mrs. Cramer, from Yosemite; also Lloyd W. Lively, of Goleta, member of the commission; Earl P. Hanson, of Sacramento; Lon E. Spharler and A1 Selzgeber, of Goleta; George W. Lynn, Carpinteria. Miss Pearl Chase, Plans and Planting Committee of Santa Barbara, and Director W. Edwin Gledhill conducted the guests through the historic houses. representative few, are: Recent gifts to the Fernald House, to mention A small chest made of camphor wood, said to have been made by British soldiers in the Crimean War, and presented by them to Florence Nightingale when she visited the troops at the battle front, in 1854; on the top is an incised-painting showing the arrival of the famous English nurse, surrounded by horse and foot troops.

Also, a white bisque cherub and a pair of deep blue perfume bottles, all presented by Gordon Langley Hall, a British-born American journalist, au thor and historian, in memory of his cousin, Isabel Lydia Whitney, who died in February. Miss Whitney was known for her fresco paintings, watercolors and as a restorer of historic wallpapers. She was living in an 1805 house in Greenwich Village, which she and Mr. Hall had restored, at the time of her death.

Mrs. F. E. Hamilton of Santa Barbara has given a lovely hand woven wool blue and white coverlet from the home of Josiah and Sarah Rogers 26

Hopkins, in Fayette Co., Ohio. Woven by itinerant weavers (people who stopped by the farm and did a little weaving for their “keep”, before moving on to the next town), it dates from 1860.

Mrs. William Lozell Snook has made a gift of a precious heirloom quilt which has been in her family for over a hundred years. It was made from the baby clothes of Edwin M. Stanton, who was born in Steubenville, 0., in 1814, and in 1862 was Secretary of State under Abraham Lincoln.

From Mr. and Mrs. Charles F. Eckels of San Marino, we have received a beautiful rosewood dining chair, upholstered in plum velvet. It is one of a set of eight which Phineas Banning had brought around the Horn to use in his new home in Wilmington, Calif., sometime around 1864, at the time of the founding of that city which he named for his birthplace, Wilmington,

Del. Mrs. Anton Hegemann, of Albuquerque, N.M., was the donor of a pair of brass andirons and a brass fireplace fender which had belonged to Mrs. Amos Gove, of Concord, N.H. When the Gove family left their farm and moved to Indian Hill (Cincinnati, O.) in the 1830’s, these pieces were brought along in the wagon.

Mrs. Charles P. Harper has been more than generous with her family treasures, for she has given us mementos ranging from early 1800 cast iron three-legged cooking pots, fluting irons, a child’s toy iron stove, silver spoons and fruit dish, handmade embroidered pieces, picture frames, sam plers, Godey prints, two silk shawls, a variety of linens, red and white patchwork quilts for the children room, baby dresses and long flannel petticoats— to her grandmother’s chemise and nightgown, made for her wedding trousseau in the early 1860’s.

Mrs. Albert De L’Arbre has had five handsome boulders moved from her garden in' Mission Canyon to enhance the area surrounding the Fernald Family Circle. In the center of the circle has been placed a gracious bird bath and a curved stone bench, gifts from two members of the Women’s Board. Under the spreading Sapota tree (planted many years ago by one of the former families occupying the Adobe), a large lichen-covered flat stone has been placed and on it has been attached the bronze plaque which was presented to the Historical Society in April, 1961, by the Society of California Pioneers in honor of the Santa Barbarans who have been officers of the society between 1850 and 1961. Judge Charles Fernald was vice president, 1857 to 1859.

Flanking this stone (also from the De L’Arbre garden) are two Vic torian sandstone hitching posts which Mrs. Godwin Pelissero obtained from the former home of Clara Curtis, on E. Pedregosa Street.

Plans are being formulated for the annual money-raising event which sustains the operation of the Adobe and Fernald House. A Casa Tour will be conducted on Sunday afternoon, August 12, at which time a new group of “history-making houses” will be opened for public inspection. Refresh ments will be served. Santa Barbara is fortunate in having available enough of these important adobe homes to make such a tour possible, as well as owners who are willing to open them to an interested public.

The members of the Women’s Projects Board issue an invitation to everyone to check this date, and join us in our pre-Fiesta party.

WiLBERTA. M. Finley

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IN MEMORIAM Mr. Arthur Hutchinson

General C. H. McKinstry

Mrs. Anton Hegemann

Mrs. C. P. Dubbs

Miss Elizabeth Cudahy

Mr. Collis Dore

SANTA BARBARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY OFFICERS AND DIRECTORS 19 6 2 OFFICERS President First Vice President...

Second Vice President.

.Dr. Hilmar 0. Koefod Don W. Woods Hugli J. Weldon Paul G. Sweetser

Secretary Treasurer Past President

Mrs. Henry CrifTitlis Thomas J. McDermott

DIRECTORS Mrs. Charles H. Cannon .Mrs. Wilson Forbes .John Galvin John D. Gill W. Edwin Gledhill Rev. Virgil Cordano

●Mrs. Godwin Pelissero Edward S. .Spaulding .Mrs. Robert Ingle Hoyt Garrett Van Horne Elmer H. Whittaker Dr. Irving N. Wills

W'. Edwin Gledhill .Mrs. W. Edwin Gledhill

Museum Director Curator Editor-in-Chief

Edward Selden Sj)aulding

The Society wishes to express sincere thanks to the following donors: Dr. Roy Barrons Mr. William Berkman Mr. Harold Cha.se Mrs. Eileen Dismuke Mr. George R. Doan Mrs. Ray L. Dawley Mrs. G. F. Gaston Mr. Edward A. Gilbert Mr. and Mrs. Fred L. Griffin Mrs. F. E. Hamilton Mrs. Lois Hennessy Mrs. H. D. Johnson Mrs. Clarence Longmire

Mrs. Donald Myrick Mr. and Mrs. Dwight Murpliy -Mr. and .Mrs. Edmond ^Montgomery .Mr. Gregor Norman-Wilcox Mrs. Godwin Pelissero Mrs. Svend Olsen Miss Matilde Potter Mr. William Serumgard Mr. Edward J. Shedd Mr. E. S. Spauliling Mrs. L. 1). Stanford Mr. Frank Pettee Mrs. M. B. Biddle

NEW MEMBERS ACTIVE Mr. W. Ripley Dorr Mrs. Charles F. Eckels Mrs. K. C. Bowman Mr. F. W. Crakes Mr. Wallace Hebhard Mr. and Mrs. H. W. Hitchcock Mr. and Mrs. William MacNally Mr. and Mrs. W. C. Mudgett Mrs. Ruth R. Liecty Mrs. Hewitt Reynolds Mr. George Robb Mrs. C. E. Russell Tile Santa Barbara Club

Mr. and Mrs. Cecil T. Thomas .Mrs. Lloyd F. Wheeler Mrs. Robert N. Williams Mr. William Woollett SUSTAINING Mrs. Robert N. Burgess, Jr. Mr. and Mrs. .Mario Castagnola Mr. James Cook Mr. George R. Doan Mr. and .Mrs. Helmer Ericson Mr. and Mrs. Floyd W. McRae CONTRIBUTING Mr. Moses C. Jones Mrs. Henry Wendt

HISTORICAL SOCIETY MEMBERSHIP There are five classes of membership: Benefactor, SlOO; Patron, $25; Contributing, $15; Sustaining, $10; Active, $5. Dues are tax deductible.

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