Bee-Pastures of California: In Two Parts:-I.

THE BEE-PASTURES OF CALIFORNIA. IN TWO PARTS: 1. SV. -V,V-;\u27f S; ;.-;:-;\u27. :;:\u27.- When California was wild, it was one sweet bee-garden throughout its entire length, north and south, and all the way across from the snowy sierra to the ocean. Wherever a bee might fly within the bounds of this virgin wilderness—through the redwood forests, along the banks of the rivers, along the bluffs and headlands fronting the sea, over valley and plain, park and grove, and deep leafy glen, or far up the piney slopes of the mountains—throughout every belt and section of climate, bee flowers bloomed in lavish abundance. Here they grew more or less apart in special sheets and patches of no great size, there in broad, flowing folds hundreds of miles in length, zones of polleny forests, zones of flowery chaparral, stream-tangles of rubus and wild rose, sheets of golden composite, beds of violets, beds of mint, beds of bryanthus and clover, and so on, certain species blooming somewhere around all the year. But of late years plow and sheep have made sad havoc in these glorious pastures, destroying tens of thousands of the flowery acres like a fire, and banishing many species of the best honey-plants to rocky cliffs and fence corners, while, on the other hand, culture thus far has given no adequate compensation, at least in kind—acres of alfalfa for miles of the richest wild pasture, ornamental roses and honeysuckles around cottage doors for cascades of wild roses in the dells, and small, square orchards and orange-groves for broad mountain-belts of chaparral. Only ten years ago, the Great Central Plain of California, during the months of March, April, and May, was one smooth, continuous bed of honey-bloom, so marvelously rich that, in walking from one end of it to the other, a distance of more than four hundred miles, your feet would press more than a hun- Cl\u27 7/0 dred flowers at every step. Mints, gilias, nemophilas, castilleias, and innumerable composite were so crowded together that, had ninety-nine in every hundred been taken away, the plain would still have seemed extravagantly flowery to any but Californians. The radiant, honeyful corollas, touching and over-lapping, and rising above one another, glowed in the living light like a sunset sky- one glorious blaze of purple and gold. Down through the midst flowed many a river, the Sacramento from the north, the San Joaquin from the south, with noble tributaries sweeping in at right angles from the mountains, dividing the plain into sections fringed with trees. Along each river and tributary there is a strip of bottom-land, countersunk beneath the general level, and wider toward the foot-hills, where magnificent oaks, from three to eight feet in diameter, cast grateful masses of shade over the open, prairie-like level. And close along the water\u27s edge there is a fine jungle of tropical luxuriance, composed of wild rose and bramble bushes and a great variety of climbing vines, wreathing and interlacing the branches and trunks of willows and alders, and swinging across from summit to summit in heavy festoons. Here the wild bees revel in fresh bloom long after the flowers of the drier plain have withered and gone to seed. And in midsummer, when the blackberries are ripe, the Indians come from the mountains to feast-r—men, women, and babies in long, noisy trains, oftentimes joined by the farmers of the neighborhood, who gather this wild fruit with commehdable appreciation of its superior flavor, while their home orchards are full of ripe peaches, apricots,, nectarines, and figs, and their vineyards are laden with grapes. But, though these luxuriant bottoms are thus distinct from the smooth, treeless plain, they make no heavy dividing lines in general views. The whole appears as one continuous THE BEE-PASTURES OF CALIFORNIA. 223 iheet of bloom, bounded only by the mount ains. My first view of this central garden, the most extensive and best defined of all the bee- pastures of the State, was obtained from the summit of the Pacheco pass, about the middle of April, 1868, when it was rejoicing in all its glory. Along the eastern horizon rose the mighty sierra, white and jagged with snowy peaks along the top, dark with forests in the middle region, and purple with grasses and flowers and chaparral at the base, and blending gracefully in smooth hill undulations into the glowing yellow plain, which, like a cloth, of gold, was seen flowing away to north and south as far as the eye could reach: hazy and vanishing in the distance, distinct as a new map along the foot-hills at my feet—the sunny sky arching over all. Descending the eastern slopes of the coast range, through beds of gilias and lupines, and around many a breezy hillock and bush- crowned headland, I at length waded out into the midst of the glorious field of gold. All the ground was covered, not with grass and green leaves, but with radiant corollas, about ankle-deep next the foot-hills, knee- deep or more five or six miles out. Here were bahia, madia, madaria, burrielia, chrys- opsis, corethrogyne, grindelia, etc., growing in close social congregations of various shades of yellow, blending\u27 finely with the purples of clarkia, orthocarpus, and Oenothera, whose delicate petals were drinking the vital sunbeams without giving back any sparkling glow. Because so long a period of extreme drought succeeds the rainy season, most of the vegetation is composed of annuals, which spring up simultaneously and bloom together at about the same height above the ground, the general surface being but slightly ruffled by the taller phacelias, pentstemons, and groups of Salvia carduacea, the king of the mints. Sauntering in any direction, hundreds of these happy sun-plants brushed against my. feet at every step, and closed over them as if I were wading in liquid gold. The air was sweet with fragrance, the larks sang their blessed songs, rising on the wing as I advanced, then sinking out of sight in the pol- leny sod, while myriads of wild bees stirred the lower air with their monotonous hum—. monotonous, yet forever fresh and sweet as cvery-day sunshine. Hares and spermophiles showed themselves in considerable numbers, °nd small bands of antelope were almost constantly in sight, gazing curiously from me slight elevation, and then bounding swiftly away with unrivaled grace of motion. Yet I could discover no crushed flowers to mark their track, nor, indeed, any destructive action of any wild foot or tooth whatever. The great yellow days circled by uncounted, while I drifted toward the north, observing the countless forms of life thronging about me—lying down almost anywhere on the approach of night. And what glorious botanical beds I had! Oftentimes on awaking I would find several new species leaning over me and looking me full in the face, so that my studies would begin before rising. About the first of May J. turned eastward, crossing the San Joaquin between the mouths of the Tuolumne and Merced, and by the time I had reached the Sierra foot-hills, most of the vegetation had gone to seed and become as dry as hay. All the seasons of the great plain are warm or temperate, and bee-flowers are never wholly wanting; but the grand springtime—the annual resurrection—-is governed by the rains, which usually set in about: the middle of December or the beginning of January. Then the seeds, that for six months have lain on the ground dry and fresh as if they had been gathered into barns, at once unfold then- treasured life. The general brown and purple of the ground, and the dead vegetation of the preceding year, give place to the green of mosses and liverworts and myriads of young leaves. Then one species after another comes into flower, gradually overspreading the green with yellow and purple, which lasts until May. The rainy season is by no means a gloomy, soggy period of constant cloudiness and rain. Nowhere else in North America, perhaps in the world, are the months of December, January, February, and March so full of bland, plant-building sunshine. Referring to my notes of the winter and spring of 1868-9, every day of which I spent out of doors, on that section of the plain lying between the Tuolumne and Merced rivers, I find that the first rain of the season fell on the 18th of December. January had only six rainy days—that is, days on which • rain fell; February three, March five, April three, and May three, completing the so- called rainy season, which was about an average one. The ordinary rain-storm of this region is seldom very cold or violent. The winds, which in settled weather come from the north-east, veer round into the opposite direction, the sky fills gradually and evenly with one general cloud, from which the rain falls steadily, often for several days in succession, at a temperature of about 45° or 50° fiist More than seventy-five per cent, of all the rain of this season came from the south-east. One magnificent storm from the north-west fell on the 21st of March. A massive, round- browed cloud came swelling and thundering over the flowery plain in most imposing majesty, its bossy front burning white and purple in the full blaze of the sun, while warm rain poured from its ample fountains like a cataract, beating down flowers and bees, and flooding the dry water-courses as suddenly as those of Nevada are flooded by cloud-bursts. But in less than half an hour not a trace of the heavy mountain-like cloud-structure was left in the sky, and the bees were on the wing as if nothing more gratefully refreshing could have been sent them. By the end of January four plants were in flower, and five or six mosses had already adjusted their hoods and were in the prime of life, but the flowers were not sufficiently numerous to affect greatly the general green of the young leaves. Violets made their appearance on the first week of February, and toward the end of this month the warmer portions of the plain were already golden with myriads of the flowers of rayed composite. This was the full spring-time. New species bloomed every day. The sunshine grew warmer and richer. The air became more tuneful from day to day with humming wings, and sweeter with the fragrance of the opening flowers. Ants were getting ready for their summer work, rubbing their benumbed limbs, and sunning themselves on the husk-piles before their doors, and spiders were busy mending their old webs or weaving new ones. In March, vegetation was more than doubled in depth and splendor; claytonia, calandrinia, a large white gilia, and two nemophilas were in bloom, together with a host of yellow composite, tall enough to bend in the wind and show wavering ripples of shade. In April, plant-life as a whole reached its greatest height, and the plain over all its varied surface was mantled with a close furred plush of purple and golden corollas. By the end of this month most of the species had ripened their seeds, but undecayed, still seemed to be in bloom from the numerous corolla-like involucres and whorls of chaffy scales of the compositae. In May the bees found only a few deep-set liliaceous plants and eriogonums in flower. June, July, August, and September was the season of rest and sleep,—the winter of dry heat,—followed in October by a second outburst of bloom at the very driest time of the year. Then, after the shrunken mass of leaves and stalks of the dead vegetation crinkle and turn to dust beneath the foot, if it had been baked in an oven, Hemizonia virgata, a slender, unobtrusive little plant from six inches to three feet high, suddenly makes its appearance in patches miles in extent, like a resurrection of the bloom of April. I\u27 have counted upward of three thousand flowers, five-eighths of an inch in diameter, on a single plant. Both leaves and steins arc so slender as to be nearly invisible amid so showy a multitude of flowers. The ray and disk flowers are both yellow, the stamens purple, the texture of the rays being rich and velvety, like the petals of garden pansies. The prevailing wind turns all the heads round to the south-east, so that in facing north-westward we have the flowers looking us in the face. In our estimation, this little plant,, the last-bom of the brilliant host of composite that glorify the plain, is the most interesting of all. It remains in flower until November, uniting with two Or three species of wiry eriogonums, which continue the floral chain around Decemlier to the spring flowers of Januarys Thus, although the main bloom and honey season is only about three months long, the floral • circle, however thin around some of the hot, rainless months, is never completely broken. How long the various species of wild bees have lived in this honey-garden nobody knows; probably ever since the main body of the present flora gained possession of the land, toward the close of the glacial period. The first brown honey-bees brought to California are said to have arrived in San Francisco in March, 1853. A bee-keeper by the name of Shelton purchased a lot, consisting of twelve swarms, from some one at Aspin- wall, who had brought them from New York. All the hives contained bees when landed at San Francisco, but they finally dwindled to one hive, which was taken to San Jose. The little emigrants flourished and multiplied in the bountiful pastures of the Santa Clara valley, sending off three swarms the first season. The owner was killed shortly afterward, and in settling up his estate, two of the swarms were sold at auction for one hundred and five and one hundred and ten dollars respectively. Other importations were made, from time to time, by way of the Isthmus, and, though great pains were taken to insure success, about one-half usually died on the way. Four swarms were brought safely across the plains in 1859, the hives being placed in the rear end of a wagon, which was stopped in the afternoon to allow the bees to fly and feed in the floweriest places that were within A BEE-RANCH IN LOWER CALIFORNIA. reach until dark, when the hives were closed. In 1855, two years after the time of the first arrivals from New Vork,\u27 a single swarm was brought over from San Jose, and let fly in the Great Central Plain. Bee-culture, however, has never gained much attention there, notwithstanding the extraordinary abundance of honey-bloom and the high price of honey. A few hives are found here and there among settlers who chanced to have learned something about the business before coming to the State. But sheep, cattle, and grain raising are the chief industries, as they require Jess skill and care, while the profits thus jar have been greater. In 1856, honey sold here at from one and a-half to two dol- Vot. XXIV.—20. lars per pound. -Twelve years later the price had fallen to twelve and a half cents. In 1868, I sat down to dinner with a band of ravenous sheep-shearers at a ranch on the San Joaquin, where fifteen or twenty hives, were kept, and our host advised us not to spare the large pan of honey he had placed on the table, as it was the cheapest article he had to offer. In all my .walks, however, I have never come upon a regular bee-ranch there like those so common and so skillfully managed in the- southern counties of the State. The. few pounds of honey.and wax produced are consumed at home, and are scarcely taken into account among the coarser products of the farm. The swarms that escape from their careless owners have a weary, perplexing time of it in seeking suitable homes. Most of them make their way to the foot-hills of the mountains, or to the trees that line the banks of the rivers, where some hollow log or trunk may be found. A friend of mine, while out hunting last winter on the San Joaquin, came upon an old coon- trap hidden among some tall grass, near the edge of the river, upon which he sat down to rest. Shortly afterward his attention was forced upon a crowd of angry bees that were flying excitedly about his head, when he discovered that he\u27was sitting upon their hive, which was found to contain more than two hundred pounds of honey. Out in the broad, swampy delta of the Sacramento and San Joaquin the little wanderers have been known to build their combs in a bunch of rushes or stiff, wiry grass, scarcely protected from the weather, and in danger every spring of being carried away by floods. They have the advantage, however, of a vast extent of fresh pasture, accessible only to themselves. The present condition of the Grand Central Garden is very different from that we have sketched. About ten years ago, when the gold placers had been pretty thoroughly exhausted, the attention of fortune-seekers— not home-seekers—was in great part turned away from the mines to the fertile plains, and many began - experiments in a kind of restless, wild-cat agriculture. A load of lumber would be hauled to some spot on the free wilderness where water could be easily found, and a rude box-cabin built. Then a gang-plow was procured, and a dozen mustang ponies, worth ten or fifteen dollars apiece, and with these hundreds of acres were stirred as easily as if the land had been under cultivation for years, tough perennial roots being almost wholly absent. Thus, a ranch was established, and from these bare wooden huts, as centers of desolation, the wild flora vanished in ever-widening circles. But the arch destroyers are the shepherds, with their flocks of hoofed locusts, sweeping over the ground like a fire, and trampling down every rod that escapes the plow as completely as if the whole plain were a cottage garden-plot without a fence. But notwithstanding a\u27 that a thousand swarms of bees may be pastured here for every one now gathering honey. The greater portion is still covered every season with a repressed growth of bee- flowers, for most of the species are annuals, and many of them are not relished by sheep or cattle, while the rapidity of their growth enables them to develop and mature their seeds before any foot has time to crush them. The ground is, therefore, kept sweet, and the race is perpetuated, though only as a suggestive shadow of the magnificence of its wildness. The time will undoubtedly come when the entire area of this noble valley will be tilled like a garden, when the fertilizing waters of the mountains, now flowing to the sea, will be distributed to every acre, giving rise to prosperous towns, wealth, arts, etc. Then, I suppose, there will be few left, even among botanists, to deplore the vanished primeval flora. In the meantime, the pure waste going on—the wanton destruction of the innocents—is a sad sight to see, and the sun may well be pitied in being compelled to look on. The bee-pastures of the coast-ranges last longer and are far more varied than those of the great plain, on account of differences of soil and climate, moisture and shade, etc. Some of the mountains are upward of four thousand feet in height, and small streams and springs, oozy bogs, etc., occur in great abundance and variety in the wooded regions, while open parks flooded with sunshine, and hill-girt valleys lying at different elevations, each with its own peculiar climate and exposure, possess the required conditions for the development of species and families of plants wideh- varied. Next the plain there is, first, a senes of smooth hills, planted with a rich and showy- vegetation that differs but little from that of the plain itself—-as if the edge of the plain had been lifted and bent into flowing folds with all its flowers in place, only toned down a little as to their luxuriance, and a few new- species introduced, such as the hill lupines, mints, and gilias. The colors show finely when thus held to view on the slopes—patches of red, purple, blue, yellow, and white blending around the edges, the whole appearing at a little distance like a map colored in sections. Above this lies the park and chaparral region, with evergreen oaks planted wide apart, and blooming shrubs from three to ten feet high—manzanita and ceanothus of several species, mixed with rhamnus, cercis, pickeringia, cherry, amelanchier, and adenos- toma, in shaggy, interlocking thickets, with many species of hosackia, clover, monardella, castilleia, etc., in the openings. The main ranges send out long spurs somewhat parallel to their axes, inclosing level valleys, many of them quite extensive, and containing a great profusion of sun-loving bee-flowers in their wild state,; but these are, in great part, already lost to the bees by cultivation. Nearer the coast are the giant forests of die redwoods, extending from near the Oregon line to Santa Cruz. Beneath the cool, deep shade of these majestic trees the ground is occupied by ferns, chiefly woodwardia and aspidiums, with only a few flowering plants— oxalis, trientalis, erythromum,fritillaria, smilax, and other shade-lovers. But all along the redwood belt there are sunny openings on hill-slopes looking to the south, where the giant trees stand back and give the ground to the small sun-flowers and the bees. Around the lofty redwood walls of these little bee- acres there is usually a fringe of chestnut-oak, laurel, and madrona, the last of which is a surpassingly beautiful tree, and a great favorite with the bees. The trunks of the largest specimens are seven or eight feet thick, and about fifty feet high, the bark crimson andchoc- olate, the leaves plain, large, and glossy, like those of Magnolia grandiflora, while the flowers are white and urn-shaped, in well-proportioned panicles from five to ten inches long. When in full bloom, a single tree seems to be visited at times by a whole hive of bees at once and the grand hum of such a multitude of wings makes the listener guess that more than the ordinary work of honey-winning must be going on. How perfectly