Ophir roses, the honeysuckle where the linnets nested, the mocking
birds that sang all night long; the perfume of the jasmine, of the
orange-blossoms, the pink flame of the peach trees in April, the
ever-changing color of the mountains. And I remember Ninette, my
little Creole mother, gay as a butterfly, carefree as a meadow-lark.
'Twas she who planted the jasmine.

My little mother died when I was seven years old. Dad and I and my
old black mammy, Rachel, stayed on in the cottage. The mocking-birds
still sang, and the linnets still nested in the honeysuckle, but
nothing was ever quite the same again. It was like a different
world; it was a different world. There were gold-of-Ophir roses,
and, peach blossoms in April, but there was no more jasmine; Dad had
it all dug up. To this day he turns pale at the sight of it--poor
Dad!

When I was twelve years old, Dad sold out his hardware business,
intending to put his money in an orange grove at Riverside, but the
nicest livery-stable in San Bernardino happened to be for sale just
then, so he bought that instead, for he was always crazy about
horses.

To see me trotting about in Paquin gowns and Doucet models, you'd
never think I owed them to three owlish little burros, would you?
But it's a fact. When Dad took over the livery-stable, he found he
was the proud possessor of three donkeys, as well as some twenty-odd
horses, and a dozen or so buggies, buckboards and surries. The
burros ate their solemn heads off all winter, but in May it had been
the custom to send them to Strawberry Valley in charge of a Mexican
who hired them out to the boarders at the summer hotel there.