N€TIcia;s QUARTERLY BULLETIN OF THE SANTA BARBARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY MAILING ADDRESS: OLD MISSION, SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA
Across the Valley to Rancho Los Amoles Frances Cooper Kroll Later the day would be warm but it was still pleasantly cool that morn ing, as J, riding a mule and followed by the two coolies, went down the hill from the Santa Rosa adobe. The melancholy strains of a S])anish love song drifted up to me; the shearers were singing in the large shearing shed as they worked. The day, the song, the significance of it made me momentarily regret that I was losing a single second of this colorful yearly event in our lives on the ranch. After 1 had made the turn aTul passed the corrals now crowded with sheep brought down from the camps on the dillfTcnt ranges to be sheared, 1 stopped and through the open sides of the shed sat watching the men at worL What I was witnessing was very familiar to me but always stirring, as it must have been, so many years before, to my father. The long wool sack hanging from the iron hoop at the end of the build ing was half filled: I could see through the thick fabric the movements of the man within, tramping firmly down each wooly fleece after it was thrown in to him by Pablo, who stood with great importance on the platform above. At intervals, louder than the singing, than the occasional cough or bleat of one of the sheep, could be heard the grating rasp of the shears being sharp ened against the large grindstone in the corner. My brother Bill was moving about among the men cautioning them when necessary to be more careful in their shearing, to cut as seltlom as possible the bodies of the helpless, patient animals, that imprisoned, sagged between their legs and feet. My usual job was alertly to watch for each fresh wound and pour on it, from the bottle provi<ied for that purpose, a mixture of oil and antiseptic. I watched the man who was taking my place for the day with a slight feeling of envy. Among the shearers were many who had come yearly to tlu: ranch with the crew for as long as my family could remember. Their fine faces were heavily creased with lines, but their eyes were yt)ung and they worked with a concentration necessary to compensate for the lost quickness of their youth. 'I'he others, young and vigoi'ous. conscious of their dark good looks, accentuated by the red bandanas lied across their foreheads to hold back the sweat—it showed in shining little pools and ran in rivulets down their chests and shoulders—suddenly began to joke together as they sang. There was no plaintive sadness now, their song had become lively and a bit wicked 1