had no spare tire and it is very like
speculating in oil stocks to start for a run of any length under those
circumstances. It worked out about as it would have done if we had been
trifling with the stock market. A rear tire blew out, and we were put
under the disagreeable necessity of giving our purchaser more nearly his
money's worth. This was a poor start for a holiday, but being near a
delightful inn, we crept slowly to town on our rim and found a fete
awaiting us. We also found friends from the East who asked us all to
lunch, thereby, as one member of the party put it in Pollyanna's true
spirit, much decreasing the price of the new tire. The inn is built in
Spanish style and we lunched in a courtyard full of gaudy parrots,
singing birds in wicker cages and singing senoritas as gay as the
parrots, on balconies above us. The entire menu was orange, or at least
colored orange. It was really charming, and our spirits rose to almost a
champagne pitch, though orange juice--diluted at that--was the only
beverage served. (I believe that there is a Raisin Day, also, but on
account of its horrid association with rice and bread puddings we have
let that slip by unnoticed.)

Our California color scheme is the very latest thing in decorative art.
There is nothing shrinking about us, for we come boldly forth in orange
and yellows in true cigar-ribbon style--even our motor licenses of last
year had poppies on them. Speaking of poppies, I heard the other day of
a lady who voiced her opinion in all seriousness in the paper, that Mr.
Hoover should have California poppy seeds sent to him for distribution
among the Belgians to sow over the ruins of their country. Of course
there is something in the power of suggestion, and I suppose it would
brighten up the landscape. Joedy is strong on the color idea. We had a
neighbor who had a terrible attack of jaundice, which turned her the
color of a daffodil. I was saying what a pity it was, then Joedy
observed: "Well, Muvs, I think she makes a nice bright spot of color!"

There is a road leading toward the San Fernando Valley, with fruit
stalls on both sides, very gay with oranges, grape-fruit, and lemons.
One particularly alluring stand is presided over by a colored mammy in
bandana shades, turban and all.

All this profusion makes one feel that it is no trick to get a living
out of this very impulsive soil, but before buying a plot of one's own,
it is wise to see the seasons through. Cali