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In the spring of 1869, a grizzly of the largest size "ranched" in the San Andreas Valley, near the new reservoir of the Spring Valley Water Company,—from which San Francisco is supplied,—within fifteen miles of the Golden City, for several weeks. Nobody about there had lost any bears, and nobody went after him, so he fattened on the luxuriant clover and wild oats until the range began to give out, and then leisurely departed for the mountains. No one asked him to come, and nobody cared to delay his departure.
The grizzly is susceptible of domestication, but his moods are varied even then. A few years ago, while a museum was being moved from one part of San Francisco to another, old Samson—who chawed up "Grizzly Adams" once upon a time and rendered him beautiful for life—got out of his cage and took possession of the lower part of the city. A crowd of excited men and boys were soon at his heels, endeavoring to corral him, but for a long time without success. At length, tired of picking up damaged fruit from the gutters, upsetting ash-barrels and swill-barrels, and frightening all the women and children on the street out of their seven senses, he took refuge in a livery stable, where he was speedily surrounded and cornered. A number of men formed a hollow square around him with pitchforks, and an Irishman with a rope formed into a noose crawled up within reach of the beleaguered animal, and would have lassoed him, but for the fact that he was afraid to attempt it. "Why don't you slip it over his nose so that he can't bite?" shouted a bystander to him. "Well, you see I would, but thin I ain't acquainted with him jist!" was the hesitating reply. "Oh, never mind being acquainted with him; don't stand on ceremony with a bear. Just take off your hat and introduce yourself!" was the jeering rejoinder; and a roar of laughter from the entire crowd testified to their keen appreciation of the joke. In January, 1870, I saw that same bear in the Plaza de Toros, in the city of Vera Cruz, Mexico, dig a hole large enough to hold an elephant, take a bull which had been set to fight him in his paws as if he were an infant, carry him to the pit, hurl him into it head foremost, slap him on the side with his tremendous paws until his breath was half knocked out of his body, and then hold him down with one paw while he deliberately buried him alive by raking the earth down upon him with the other. Samson had not a tooth to bite with at that time, they having been in the course of years and many fights worn down to the gums; but his strength was that of an elephant, and his claws, eight inches in length, curved like a rainbow and sharp as a knife would enable him to tear open anything made of flesh and blood as you or I would tear open a banana.
I am satisfied that an average grizzly could at any time whip the strongest African lion in a fair stand-up fight, while a full-grown bull is no more to him than a rat is to the largest house-cat.
The grizzly is becoming scarce in some parts of the State, but he is still found in great numbers in the Coast Range Mountains, from San Diego to Del Norte.
The Mexican or native Californian vaqueros in Santa Barbara and neighboring counties, riding out three or four together on their fleet, well-trained caballos, will without fear attack a grizzly, lasso him from different directions, and not only conquer him, but actually so tie him up and entangle him as to eventually tire him out, and bring him into the town an unresisting prisoner.
But it is not every man who can do that little trick. The natives relate with pardonable exultation the story of a Yankee who came to California in early days, and soon acquired the trick of throwing the lasso with considerable dexterity. Hearing others talk of lassoing the grizzly, he started out full of confidence, to show them that he could do what any other man could do in that line. He soon raised a bear, threw the lasso with unerring aim, and reined back his trembling steed to give the brute an astonisher; when the rieta—which is attached always to the pommel of the saddle—came up taut. Judge of his astonishment, my little friends, when that bear quietly assumed a sitting position, took hold of the rieta, and commenced to draw it in, hand over hand! The hapless descendant of the Pilgrim Fathers stuck to the horse and saddle until he saw the slack all drawn in, and the bear and horse coming rapidly together,—with what result could not be for a moment doubted,—then hastily descended and hunted a tree, abandoning the horse to the underwriters. He had learned only half of the trick. Two skillful men, operating from opposite sides, can master a bear and choke him between them; but with only one man, one horse, and one bear, it is "bear and for bear" all the time.
Returning from the Steele Brothers' dairy at Point Año Nuevo, we passed the famed "Pebble Beach of Pescadero," a great resort, especially for
THE PULL ON THE WRONG SIDE.
ladies and children, in the summer season. Two ledges of sharp, jagged rocks jut out into the ocean about two hundred and fifty yards apart. Between them extends a sandstone bluff some thirty feet in height, in front of which stretches the beach some twenty to fifty feet in width at high or low tide. The beach is composed wholly of pebbles, from the size of a grain of wheat to that of a good-sized walnut. They are of all colors—white, red, brown, yellow, green, and variegated. Those of a beautiful opaline hue are most plentiful, and all are highly polished by attrition. Plain agates, moss-agates, cornelians and greenstones abound; and it is claimed that the more precious stones, including diamonds and rubies, are sometimes met with. The wife of Francisco Garcia, a well-known saloon-keeper on Montgomery Street, in San Francisco, has a genuine diamond which she found here, but I am not certain that it was placed there by purely natural agencies Hundreds of tons of the pebbles are washed up by every storm, and it is supposed that there is a layer or stratum of soft rock or clay in which they are imbedded, extending out into the sea from beneath the sandstone. Every day, in summer, many ladies and children go down to this beach pebble-hunting, carrying their lunch-baskets with them. They lie down at full length upon their faces on the drifts of polished pebbles, and with a stick dig down into the mass in search of special beauties. A quart of fine ones is a good day's work, and a lady of unusually fastidious taste will frequently work all day for a cupfull. Collections of these pebbles may be seen in most of the better class of houses in San Francisco, and along the coast, though they cannot be considered as of any great value. I walked along the beach, but did not see any diamonds, and filled my pockets at random. Some of the moss-agate and similar stones make really handsome jewelry when cut and set in gold. Santa Cruz, lower down the coast, has also a pebble beach, but it is not equal to this at Pescadero.
At the beach I saw one of the characters of the locality—Cona, an immense Newfoundland dog. One day a little girl picking pebbles was caught by a huge roller from the Pacific, and carried out into the roaring surf. Cona dashed in, caught her by the hair, and, after a stout struggle, brought her ashore alive. Of course Cona became a hero at once, and was duly lionized and spoiled. He enjoyed his dignity for some time, but eventually, finding himself neglected, he determined, by a bold stroke, to regain his popularity. Starting off for the beach, he saw a lady out swimming. He at once rushed in, seized her by the hair, and, in spite of her frantic resistance, landed her on the beach. He has become a necessary nuisance, and now insists on rescuing every man, woman, and child whom he catches swimming. He was looking for somebody to rescue when we came along there—but looked in vain; it was not a good day for rescuing, and he was sad at heart and dejected of mien.
The age attained by the native Spanish-American—and usually part Indian—inhabitants of this coast is truly marvelous. I never knew but one of them
to die, and he might have lived to a green old age had he not been knocked down and run over by a runaway flour-mill truck team, on Pine street, in San Francisco, in 1868. He was one hundred and four years old when he was thus prematurely cut off. It is an undoubted fact that Cimon Avilos, now or recently living at Todos Santos Bay, Lower California, was one of the military guard who presented arms when Padre Junipero Serra raised the cross at the Mission San Diego, in July, in the year of our Lord and Master 1769. This old
conquistador
had