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The story of this lonely Indian woman-hermit, who lived entirely alone for eighteen years, on one of the islands of the Santa Barbara Channel, is now but a tradition with the present generation.

Written by Josephine Clifford in 1872.

JOUTHWARD from the quaint town of

S Santa Barbara, beyond the Santa Bar

bara Bay-with its high-arching isles, summery winds and the softened splendor of semi-tropical skies-five leagues out in ocean, the island of San Nicolas lifts its brown, rugged outline from the surging waters. Hidden from the mainland by Santa Cruz, an island of greater magnitude, the sun seems to rise from the purpled rim of the waters, and to set where the golden seas meet the horizon of the golden skies. The waves wash far up the sloping, sandy shore, and, receding, leave bright shells, tangled kelp, and smooth, wave-polished stones. The seals sun themselves on the crystalized rocks, and gaze at the intruder with almost human eyes. The sea-wasps shake their delicate wings in the bright atmosphere; and strange birds call from the high branches of unfamiliar trees. Deep pools lie hidden in lonely gorges, and fold their secrets forever in their dark bosoms. The wild dogs bark from the shelving rocks, and, with uncanny faces dart into the close ravine.

Years and years ago ere the energies of the white settlers had made their impress upon the wilderness along the Pacific shore, a tribe of Indians existed on this now desolate isle. Of what they thought, suffered, hoped or accomplished, we have only scanty tradition. Now and then a pirate's craft anchored along the quiet shore, and, departing, told no tale. Sometimes

the friendly voice of the mission fathers stole across the calm bay; and the shadow of the Cross, planted in the wilderness, threw its benign influence over the undeveloped children of the sun. But the Fathers sleep, and left no record.

Thirty-six years ago the famine found this isolated band, and clutched them with its gaunt, relentless hand. The parched earth refused her sustenance; the trees stood bare and leafless in the hot wind; the streams ran dry, and the rocks glittered white and salt under the fervid sun. The wild game famished and died; and the fierce preyed upon each other. With pitying horror, these human beings stared into each other's faces, and, with stoical fortitude, crawled away to die alone. Whether the Mission Fathers learned of their distress, or whether urged by other motives, it is not known; but they fitted out a boat, which sailed to San Nicholas and brought away the survivors-eighteen in all. As the rescued islanders were brought down to the shore where the boat was anchored, one of the women-who afterwards gave her name as Hona Maria-darted away, over the sandy shore, over rough rocks, through tangled ravines, with savage eagerness, to bring her only child which, by some oversight, had been left behind. They waited for her re-appearance-they waited long. The skies darkened; the winds arose and tossed the unsteady

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