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In the Temperate Wine Countries.

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By Arthur H. Dutton, Formerly Lieutenant, U. S. Navy

EARS ago, during my midshipman days, it was my good fortune to make a two years' cruise on the flagship of the European squadron. During this cruise I visited England, Portugal, Morocco, France, Italy, Egypt, Asia Minor, Turkey and Greece. I went not alone to the seaports of these countries, but to many places in the interior.

My observations in these places, combined with my experiences at home in the United States, broadened considerably my views on the subjejct of the use of alcoholic liquors. I learned lessons from both the wine drinking and the spirits drinking peoples.

Let me say at the outset that in the wine drinking countries of Portugal, France, Italy and Greece I never saw drunkenness among the natives. A degree of hilarity at a masked ball, particularly in carnival time, was not uncommon, but there was nothing like the "drunk" of England or of the United States. The only drunkenness I saw during the two years was in England, in Constantinople and in Egypt.

Practically everybody, old and young, drinks light wines in Portugal, France Italy and Greece. Sobriety is the rule. No one would think of eating dinner without wine. Parents give it to their children, diluted with water, according to age. The cafes, both indoor and open air, are filled with quiet, wine drinking patrons, seated at tables drinking their light wines and enjoying the music of the orchestras.

In the Mediterranean ports, where we coaled ship, the laborers who discharged the coal lighters always brought wine with them, which they drank with their midday meals.

In the wine drinking countries named, wine is a valued and appreciated part of the regular diet. People there would as soon go without their salt, or their butter, as without their wine.

And they are sober, industrious people. When I said I never saw drunkenness in the wine drinking countries, I said and meant among the natives. Some drunkenness I have seen there, but it was among foreigners, who came from countries where the drinking of so-called "hard liquors" was prevalent, such as Great Britain, the United States and Russia. Most of the offenders were sailors on shore, from our own and other foreign ships. I never saw a drunken French or Italian sailor.

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Wine is furnished by their governments to the soldiers and sailors Portugal, France, Italy and Greece. It is found not only that it protects them against typhoid fever, dysentery and other diseases, but actually adds to their efficiency. Dr. Arnozan, Professor of the Faculty of Medicine of Bordeaux, says that "it has proved that at the enlistment of soldiers the young men from the viticultural districts are better developed, taller, more alert, more supple, than those from the regions where wine is not cultivated." All the leading French savants agree that good wine is very beneficial in the

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of Marine at Constantinople, which I attended, every wine customary at a big banquet was served to all present, but I do not remember whether or not the Turkish officers drank any of it. I think they did, as several toasts were drunk.

I never saw any one drunk at such gay places as Monte Carlo, Nice, or even during the four days I spent in Paris. In Paris, I went one night to the Bal Bullier, in the Latin Quarter, where the students, artists and other gay people gather. It was a jolly affair, with much singing, dancing and bantering, but no drunkenness. Everything was orderly and good natured. The situation was the same at masked balls I attended in Naples, in Genoa and Leghorn.

It is impossible for an intelligent hu

man being to visit the wine drinking countries of Europe and fail to be impressed with the prevailing temperance. Everybody drinks wine, and everybody keeps sober.

Yet there are misguided persons who are seeking to destroy the wine industry of California; to change from the light wines of our open restaurants, cafes, hotels and clubs to the ruinous, fiery "hard liquors" of the blind pig. As Professor Louis Agassiz said years ago:

"I hail with joy-for I am a temperance man and friend of temperance— I hail with joy the efforts that are being made to raise wine in this country.

"I believe that when you can have everywhere cheap, pure, unadulterated wine, you will no longer have need for either prohibitory or license laws."

THE SANDSTORM

The early morning sun tops the desert's distant hill
With a golden shaft of light;

A gaunt gray lioness stands above her morning kill,
Savage, grim, from out the night.

Deep footprints in the shifting sands, winds cover,
As the glit'ring valleys fill;

And high above the earth three black winged vultures hover,
Circling high, and wide, and still.

A steady blaze of stifling, burning heat beats down

On the desert's whited floor;

The glaring blue casts low three sweeping shadows, brown.
On the sands that stretch before.

Far back, along the dimmed horizon's rise, there sweeps
From the south a great gray cloud;

The swish of death is in its wake, and fury in its leaps; 'Tis the great Sahara's shroud.

The jagged winged birds of prey are specks above the day, And obliterating all,

The sandstorm comes; the gaunt gray lioness slinks away At the desert's threat'ning call.

The sand clouds hiss, the mad storm roars in sheets of blinding white;

And the sky above is gray.

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A silent, sullen calm where all is still, broods on the night,

As it blackens out the day.

W. W. WELLMAN.

The Passing of the Pachecos

By Harry E. Burgess

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Todos Santos

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ESTLED among the Contra Costa hills, California, is the little valley of the San Ramon. It is early spring-a composite day, half rain, half shine-light and shadows interchanging. Aboard old-time coach-and-four, a joyous group of passengers are rolling on toward Concord. Following a wondrous burst of sun gleam from the vortex of the troubled skies, how assiduously, it rains! Surely the sun's valiant forces shall yet be vanquished. Meanwhile onward we dash, catching from the exposed front and rear of the rolling ark rarest glimpses of green vale, mountain side and running stream.

For miles in our wake extend the avenues of oak and native walnut. Diablo's twin peaks are lost in vaporous banks of gray. Behold, the swirling clouds are mobilized to storm the distant peaks that would obstruct their courses. Again, the opaque heavens part, and light in wavering columns deluges the earth. The almond groves are radiant in white and amethyst, and gorgeouly festooned in jeweled raindrops. Robin and blue jay are hiding in the copse.

The stage carrying the mails to Martinez stops at the quaint old town of the Dons. When the proud Pachecos were in their ascendency, it was with mingled apprehension and disdain that the new town growing at the "Devil Mountain's" base was viewed by the inhabitants.

Concord! our signal to disembark -for truly we had voyaged amidst the waters. Emerging from a veritable chrysalis of robes and rubber folds, we enter the neat hostelry bearing the

name of the town, where, at once surrounded by genial friends, as if by touch of magic wand, we are cosily established in our temporary home.

The Old Senora.

Strolling to the border of the town, and passing through the big ranchgate, we wend our way across the fields to the old Pacheco homestead. Entering the courtyard, and following the walk toward the veranda, we see, crouching among the shrubs and flowers, the form of an aged woman, robed in black. It is the old Senora, a gentle, fascinating creature-the almost sole survivor of her time, and the inspiration of this sketch.

"Good morning, Senora," we ven

ture.

"Buenos dias a ustedes, Senores," comes the pleasant salutation, in reassuring tones.

The old Senora, aged 90 years, sits on the ground beside a mammoth Pelargonium, about which she is hacking the soil with a small implement. Undaunted, she wages her petty warfare against the weeds within reach, only casting keen, furtive glances toward her aggressors.

"Your gracious pardon, Senores! It is all that the old may do-just potter around, pass the time, and wait. But you are welcome, buenos Senores! You do me honor."

The silence befitting the scene is broken by a cheery voice bidding us welcome, and we turn to greet the present occupant of the old mansion, and the guardian of the old Senora. Here upon the verdant plain, within the cloister of these rude walls, lives this Dona of the old regime, contented in her peaceful isolation. There is a

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"Grandma lives her own life, and does just as she chooses," we are informed, "and she must be out of doors and working about in her own way." And inquiring about her health, we are told that the Senora is seldom sick. The adage, "Whom the gods love," etc., seems to have been reversed in the Senora's case, for here we have age in evident harmony with divinity, persisting in projecting her life into an alien era, maintaining her serenity and mental vigor, and withal, smiling, and even defying "the gods."

The old Senora, discovering herself as being the object of special interest, quietly puts aside her task, and takes a seat upon the stationary bench alongside the old adobe wall. In a few rapidly uttered sentences in her own Castilian, she is inquiring about her visitors at which we beg to have some amends made to the dear lady for the bold venture in trespassing upon her peaceful domain.

"No, no! No es nada!" the Senora answers with despairing gestures, indicating that her life's affairs are insignificant compared with the honor bestowed upon her by the arrival of strangers within her gates. "It is well you have come. Gracias!"

The simple words of honest intent, the unwavering tone, the serene composure, with the Senora's keen, dark eyes, peering as through the corridors. of Time, all seem marvelous. She seems the embodiment of intelligence, kindness, cheer. Upon being informed that her visitors are simply traveling about, taking interest in everything

Californian, and are pleased beyond measure to see her for her own sake, and to find her looking well and happy, the sibyl makes reply: "Yes, yes. It is well. You are good. You will prosper. But I am only old; and the old soon pass on to other realms."

The entire southern exposure of the old adobe forms the Senora's quarters. Here she is sole occupant of her affairs, without attendants, save the kindly oversight of relatives-particularly "Carlos." At her frequent and fond mention of this name, one fancies a frolicking lad out chasing his butterflies and birds. It is evidently the sole bit of romance in the old Senora's life. With what surprise are we greeted by a handsome, stalward gentleman of full six feet, introduced as Mr. Pacheco!— the Senora's hero and pet, and by whom she is idolized. Displaying a number of fine specimens of needlework, the product of her own aged hands-not a fault discernible in the stitching-the Senora glances toward her adorable Carlos, and murmurs softly: "These are for my boy!"

Among her many and notable characteristics, the Senora Sylveria Pacheco is intensely dramatic. She rises to the occasion as in vivid recollection she momentarily re-lives the past. Discoursing freely in reminiscence of her girlhood and the old Mission life at Santa Clara, a veil is lifted from the scenes of bygone days, each detail becoming animate, significant in the impressive portrayal. Days of heroism, sacrifice and joy! She dwells with fondly emphasis upon "los Indios" (the Indians of the old Missions.) They were industrious, friendly and eager to learn; they performed on musical instruments, and sang from books at the service. The books and violins are preserved at the church in Santa Clara, the Senora adds.

Arising, she seizes a formidablelooking staff and draws a line upon the floor. "Here is the church," she explains, "and on that side is my property. They took it from me, and they have it, but it is mine!" Thus with tottering form, determined

manner,

the complaisant Senora is metamorphosed to a veritable Meg Memeles, staff in hand, mapping out her possessions upon the old adobe floor. Resuming her seat, and with her wrinkled face caressingly inclined upon the staff, the Senora continues:

"We would ride to Monterey in the careta, drawn by oxen. The careta had wooden wheels, and for oiling them we carried a beef's horn of soft soap. Scattered over the bottom of the vehicle, young and old alike, we would sometimes ride all day. We also rode horseback in journeying to town to buy goods. Ah, those were different days! All is changed now."

The old Senora sees the humor of it all. What a mode of rapid transit and pleasure touring in the sweet pastoral days!-the stupid oxen trudging their weary way, munching at the roadside herbage, the women gossiping, with babies, the lumbersome car, without seats or springs, and all in the heat and dust; halting for repast by the cooling stream, beneath the wondrous shade of oaks; fording rivers, mounting and descending the hills. Surely, Don Quixote had seen in their approach a royal embassy en route to a coronation.

Referring to the advent of the Americans, the Senora remarked: "Yes, Fremont and his men came; and when we heard the roar of the cannon we were greatly frightened. We wanted to run and hide. It is well they came, however, for our officials were ever warring with one another, or harassing the people. Our own people did not always treat us right. They would ride into the houses, or head their horses in the doorway, would demand whatever they might want, and treat us with contempt. Oh, it was well enough they came-los Americanos. I was young then. It was long ago, but I remember it all!"

Inquiring whether they were subject to the common ills in those days of the simple life, she replies: "No, Senor! The sickness came as the settlements thickened about us. We were stronger then; and we used medicinal

herbs which we gathered and preserved against such ailments and accidents. Among them were the Yerba Santa and Yerba Buena, which, you know, no doubt; and the Yerba de Golpe. Some of them were very wonIderful in their effect."

Questioned about the secret of her own remarkable preservation, the Senora attributed it to her outdoor life, plain diet, regular habits-and the plunge bath. She never uses liquors, but fruits of all kinds she partakes of freely; and above all does not grieve. In a word, our heroine is optimistic, brave, serene!

Inspired by the pervading atmosphere of sympathy and candor we asked: "Do you never get tired of the world, Senora ?"

There was a wistful, trusting glance toward her inquisator, a smile upon the dear, aged face, a moment's silence when, with a resoluteness, awe inspiring, she gestures heavenward, closes her eyes, and with staff and body swaying rhythmically, and nodding her head in solemn assent, her lips move to the syllables: "Si, si! My place is there."

One is forcibly impressed with the plainness, tidiness and comfortableness of the Senora's surroundings— fresh air abounding, and spotless linen giving grace to all. A banquet might be served upon the floor. A halo of peace rests over the humble abode. An antique of the Madonna, and a golden crucifix are the chief adornments-the gift of a padre of Zacatecas.

Leaving the old adobe through a broad hall and deep doorway, passing along a wide veranda, down the garden walk, one enters a tiny grove of willows where is disclosed an artesian fountain flowing into a reservoir which the bath house partially conceals. Trailing vines fall to the water's edge, and gleaming fishes dart athwart the limpid pool. Here the Senora takes her morning plunge in ecstasy of abandon, immune from aught of profane intrusion.

But little remains of the old glory of the romantic period, before the gold

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