PS 3509 
 
 .n6i8 
 
 S6 
 1922 
 Copy 1 
 
 BONGB 
 OF" 
 
 THRGRRRN 
 
 VRRDUGO 
 
 HILaLaS 
 
 MARION EARL 
 
BONOS 
 
 t:^heorrein 
 
 VRRDUOO 
 HIIaLa© 
 
 MARION EARL 
 
 n 
 
 ^ 
 
 SENTINEL PRESS, TUJUNGA, CALIF. 
 COPYRIGHTED 1922 
 

 JUL 11 "23 
 
 ©C1A753160 
 
Tu-jun-ga 
 
 A Legend 
 
 In the undiscovered archives 
 Of the green hills of Verdugo 
 Is this legend of the gone days 
 When the hils were not so old: 
 Once there' was an Indian chieftain 
 Who was sour and harsh and bitter, 
 With long years of tribal problems 
 All his heart grown hard and cold. 
 
 Never smiled he on his people, 
 Never spoke he without snarling, 
 Till 'twas said he'd learned the lan- 
 guage 
 Of some old wolf starved and lame. 
 Ruled he with a will of iron. 
 Every squaw, papoose and warrior 
 Did his wish with dread and fearing 
 Lest his wrath break forth like flame. 
 
 And the mother scared her papoose 
 Into proper, right behavior 
 When she plainly, sharply threatened 
 To involve the old chief's wrath. 
 Far to northward and to eastward 
 Lived the harsh chief and his people, 
 Till at last the war dance sent forth 
 All the braves on the war path. 
 
 Joined the tall and fierce Tulares 
 With the Piutes and the Monos, 
 'Gainst the sour chief and his people 
 In a red determined strife, 
 Took the lands of his ancestors, 
 
Slew and scattered all his people, 
 Deemed they had forever blotted 
 All from off the book of life. 
 
 But the chieftain lived to wander 
 With a small and feeble remnant 
 And what hardship and stai-vation 
 None can tell how they passed 
 
 through. 
 Grown more harsh and stern and bit- 
 ter 
 The old leader led them onward 
 Till the Green Hills of Verdugo 
 In their beauty came in view. 
 
 Their tired way they wended west- 
 ward 
 Twixt great mountains and green 
 
 foothills 
 Up the strange and tilted valley 
 All forlorn and without hope, 
 Camped they on the sloping summit 
 East of the sparse live oak forest 
 Where the village of Tujunga 
 Clusters now upon the slope. 
 
 In the morning somewhat early 
 Rose the vanquished restless chief- 
 tain; 
 With great gloom upon his spirit 
 Strode he* forth to muse alone; 
 Then he saw the mighty mountains 
 And the green foothills below them; 
 Saw the valley to the westward 
 And the dim blue range far thrown. 
 
 Turning, looked he down the valley 
 Stretching eastward — saw the new 
 
 sun 
 Kiss the world until it quivered 
 That delighted wakened lay — 
 
For in these days the Great Spirit 
 Showed himself on slope and hilltop 
 Wrote his name upon the ledges 
 Just as God does here today. 
 
 Long that Indian, old and bitter, 
 Looked upon the wondrous landscape, 
 Harkened to dawn's wordless music, 
 And the Spirit's mighty word. 
 In that hour his mood was shattered; 
 All the old and icy harshness 
 Seemed to melt and break within him 
 And new life was roused and stirred. 
 
 And he turned to those who watched 
 
 him 
 Smiling in his new found pleasure. 
 Spoke the one great word, **Tu-jun- 
 
 ga," 
 That with meaning throbs and lives, 
 Mingles rapture, admiration 
 And the heart's exhilaration, 
 Just as we do when "delightful" 
 To the soul expression give's. 
 
 Long the old chief looked about him, 
 Long upon the summit lingered, 
 Lived and died he in the shelter 
 Of the Green Verdugo Hills, 
 And his spirit mellowed, softened, 
 Millionaire of calm contentment, 
 'Till his smile was like a mother's 
 That above her papoose thrills. 
 
 Here he lies, up near Haines Canyon, 
 From the grounds of happy hunting 
 Comes his spirit oft to linger 
 In the haunts of old delight. 
 And the ground is still enchanted 
 Till whoever walks upon it 
 Feels the meaning of Tujunga, 
 And the word's alluring might. 
 
THE GREEN HILLS OF VERDUGO 
 
 O ye Green Hills of Verdugo! 
 
 Oft I flee to the again 
 
 From the madness of the city, 
 
 From the strenuous games of men: 
 
 All the moods of love and friendship 
 
 In thy fellowship are found, 
 
 And I tread thy trails and summits 
 
 As one might on hallowed ground. 
 
 Where the high slopes of Tujunga 
 To the groves of Sunland fall, 
 And the live oak trees are scattered 
 Down the vale from wall to wall; 
 V/here the slopes of La Cre'scenta 
 To Verdugo canon sweep. 
 The green foothills of enchantment 
 Their untiring watches keep. 
 
 O the Green Hills of Verdugo 
 Lying 'gainst the breast of day, 
 By the sunlight kissed and fondled. 
 Where the light tints glow and play, 
 And the soft flames, shade's and shadows 
 Blend in colors no man knows, 
 'Till the emerald reaches blossom 
 With light's lilly and rare rose. 
 
 Lo the great range towers above them 
 In a glory all its own, 
 Where stupendous, worldless grandeur 
 Finds an awe inspiring throne; 
 But these Green Hills of Verdugo 
 Are like friends who breathe and live. 
 Who restore the shattered courage, 
 And a spirit new can give. 
 
 When the skies beyond the green hills 
 Change to somber tints of gray, 
 The clouds come and on the hilltops 
 
Their tired heads in gladness lay. 
 When the green hills smoke like altars 
 Where the worshiper bows awed, 
 'Tis not stormclouds trailing fringes, 
 'Tis the garment hem of God. 
 
 Oft the green slopes and long ridges 
 Glow with the sun's poured out gold. 
 While' the tints of blue are mingling 
 Where the riven gulches hold 
 Their enchanted shades and shadows; 
 And o'er all and widely flung 
 Mingled blue and sifted silver 
 Calm the babbling of the tongue'. 
 
 When upon the blushing ledges 
 God has kissed the world good night, 
 And the far flung crests are burning 
 With their opal radiance bright, 
 Soft the gossimer twilight deepens, 
 ^weet the shades of darkness fall, 
 O'er the Green Hills of Verdugo, 
 Spreading peace and night o'er all. 
 
 LET US BUILD A BETTER CITY 
 
 Let us build a splendid city. 
 
 Castellated, and supreme, 
 
 That shall meet the bounds and measures 
 
 Of a master builder's dream. 
 
 Let us fire our hearts with passion 
 
 For the good and true, the skill 
 
 To set up a better city 
 
 Sitting here upon her hill. 
 
 Swirling streets and reeking alleys, 
 Business hives that touch the cloud. 
 Turmoil like thei storm of battle, 
 Din and clangor echoing loud. 
 None shall bring into our city 
 Where the peace of God was meant. 
 
And men fill their hungry coffers 
 With the gold of calm content. 
 
 We will build a different city, 
 Bettel" than the lands have known, 
 We will breathe the brother spirit 
 Into wood and brick and stone. 
 Shame the strife of petty passion 
 Warring faction, rant of clan 
 Wake to tide and new occasions 
 Act the big, broad visioned man. 
 
 THE PARSON OF THE GREEN 
 VERDUGO HILLS 
 
 They have borne him to his couch 
 On the hill's exalted crest, 
 'Mid the sage and chapparal 
 Laid his weary form to rest. 
 
 Silent are the reverent guns 
 Speaking inj their last salute, 
 And the songs have died away, 
 Tong-ues of eloquence are mute. 
 
 Gone the sad and thoughtful throng 
 That bowed close be'side the bier; 
 All alone in state he lies 
 With the mountains pressing near. 
 
 Here amid the scenes he loved, 
 By the genial sun caressed, 
 Prove's he to the thoughtful heart 
 That the last of earth is best. 
 
 He has passed through gates of good 
 Out of struggle, care and strife. 
 And mortality is lost 
 Swallowed up of endless life. 
 
Lo a prince has gone afar, 
 In our midst no more to stand, 
 To subdue us with a smile, 
 Greet us with uplifte'd hand. 
 
 O, the streets are not the same 
 As they were before he went; 
 Gone the spirit atmosphere 
 That his presence always lent. 
 
 Battle bruised from olden war 
 When he passed thro shot and shell, 
 That the land might still be one. 
 For man's sake went down through 
 hell. 
 
 Soldier in a nobler strife 
 Fought he long the wiles of sin, 
 That the' truth might be the law 
 And the right be ushered in. 
 
 Like a rock amid the flood 
 When the springtime freshet runs. 
 More heroic long he stood 
 Than amid the hail of guns. 
 
 Like the bright and swerveless star 
 On his orbit true' he moved; 
 Truth to duty and to God 
 Many years he faithful proved. 
 
 Strength that needeth not a word 
 To its magic might express; 
 Love that overflowed with deed 
 To bring comfort in distress. 
 
 Such men do not really die 
 When they move' from out the clay; 
 He has passed on out of sight 
 From the village gone away. 
 
OUR MILLIONAIRES 
 
 Allegiance to a realm they own 
 
 That knows no currency of gold, 
 
 They have no granaries heaped full 
 
 Of profits from things bought and sold; 
 
 Their bank books burst not, written full 
 
 Of symboled riches, while' they cling, 
 
 Not choice securities their host, 
 
 Nor lands to which they've tied a string. 
 
 Our millionaires sit in the sun 
 
 While their minds roam all worlds at will. 
 
 And at all fruited trees of thought 
 
 Like happy schoolboys take' their fill; 
 
 They own the sunsets, and the stars. 
 
 For them the voices of the night. 
 
 No man dare take from them a share 
 
 Of noon's lifegiving, holy i ight. 
 
 These far flung landscapes all are' theirs, 
 Stored with the mines no man can spoil. 
 Others hold deeds and taxes pay. 
 Sweat for the harvests of the soil; 
 But theirs the vistas and the we'alth 
 That the soul with great treasure fills, 
 Theirs that most glorious heratage — 
 They own the Green Verdugo Hills. 
 
 Our millionaires are frie'ndly folks. 
 Who mingle to the heart's content. 
 And count the hours of fellowship 
 As time made perfect and well spent. 
 They reap the golde'n grain of joy 
 
That grows in the contented mind, 
 They know the good of simple life 
 With the mind's freedom unconfine'd. 
 
 Not theirs the halls of luxury 
 Stored with the trophies of old time, 
 The humble homes in which they dwell 
 Have known a glory more sublime, 
 Whose doors swing open at a touch, 
 And kindly neighbors often meet. 
 Whose windows like oasis palms 
 Lure from the journey's sand and heat. 
 
 Our millionaires are widely known 
 Where rivers run and mountains reach, 
 And many are' made richer far 
 By what such clear ideals teach. 
 The chosen ones who join their Club 
 Have checkbooks on the Bank of Joy, 
 And find in a contented heart 
 Pure gold the years can not destroy. 
 
 Our millionaire's have silvering brows. 
 Time like a mother with her boys 
 May fold them to her gentle heart. 
 To slumber with their smiles and joys. 
 But when they wake may they make known 
 The' glory of their class and clan. 
 Where hearts made right are current coin, 
 The measure of immortal man. 
 
THE RESCUE-A TALE OF OLD TUJUNGA 
 DAYS 
 
 Sunset in the magical valley 
 That lies 'twixt the hills and the mountains.^ 
 The gulch-riven bulwarks to northward 
 With the tints or rare red roses glow: 
 Across, on the green, sloping foothills 
 The twilight is weaving her shadows 
 And sifting soft shades, from the clearcut 
 Skyline to the reaches below. 
 
 Up the long tortuous grade to the eastward'^ 
 Moves a canvas topped, rickety wagon 
 O'er the trail to the wheel unaccustomed 
 Drawn by a plodding ox team; 
 The driver a worn, weary woman 
 Whose' spirit defiant within her 
 Had fought with the desert and conquered, 
 And battled with mountain and stream. 
 
 Long since from the Father of Waters 
 The strong hearted, clear visioned husband 
 Had turned his face to the westward 
 For the' goal of his soul's great desire. 
 They passed o'er the rolling prarie 
 Unharmed by the wrath of the Indian, 
 They trailed through the tall rocky moun- 
 tains, 
 The lure of the quest like to fire. 
 
His courage their peace amid danger. 
 The skill of his hand was like magic, 
 He was wise in the lore of the Yankee 
 V/ho never is baffled or checked, 
 The mother, the son and small daughter 
 Serene in their trust in his prowess. 
 No matter what danger or peril, 
 Deliverance were calm to expect. 
 
 One night from the shadows he' staggered 
 From the last thoughtful care of the oxen, 
 And dropped to the ground by the campfire 
 In the clutch of a strange, cutting pain; 
 An hour, and the illness was ended. 
 The lure of the sunset had vanished. 
 The hand had forgotten its cunning 
 To follow the voice of the brain. 
 
 O, dumb with her terror and anguish 
 By her dead in the weird silent moonlight 
 The wife sat till the hour of the morning 
 Hef soul on the wrack smitten through; 
 But the light like a trumpet awoke her 
 To the needs of the living, dependent 
 Alone for their lives on her action. 
 She rose up a creature made new. 
 
 The soul that had gone from its temple 
 Seemed to come back again from the dark- 
 ness 
 Become in hei- flesh all incarnate. 
 She wakened her ten summered son, 
 They buried their dead without weeping. 
 They fought their way onward and west- 
 ward 
 Nurse, driver and hunter and captain, 
 Through peril and sickness she won. 
 
 Now not far to the westward and northward 
 Lay the lands by the wide smiling channel 
 That had lured them o'er mountain and 
 
desert 
 The home of their battle and dream >^' 
 Down into the wide sloping valley' 
 The rickety canvas topped wagon 
 Wound through the clustering live oaks, 
 To pause by the swift tumbling stream 
 
 That spilled from the mouth of a canyon" 
 And spread as it swiftly descended 
 O'er a pathway of pebbles and boulders, 
 They quickly made camp for the night.* 
 The woman and tender, true mother, 
 The hunter and driver and captain, 
 Gazed long on the landmarks around her 
 Bewildered, confused at the sight; 
 
 Alone in the still wondrous mountains 
 She knew she had wandered by strange trail 
 From the plain of far-famed San Fernando, 
 That the path to her hopes led across, 
 And on o'er the pass in low mountains, 
 Down to the mild, restless ocean, 
 And on 'twixt the cliffs and the billows, 
 She was baffled, soul weary and lost/ 
 
 The fever-worn, frail infant daughter 
 She held to her breast softly crooning. 
 While the boy looked after the oxen, 
 And courage was plumed for her flight. 
 When suddenly came the swift trampling 
 Of horsemen in eagerness riding, 
 And lo, the camp was surrounded 
 By bandits who were eager to fight. 
 
 They plundered the stores in the wagon 
 To take in the stripped canvas cover, 
 Made sport of the terror and pleading. 
 Till the leader his last order flung: 
 "Leave the brat where she is for the coyotes 
 Shoot the boy lest he fight and betray us. 
 The woman is mine, turn the oxen 
 
The cattle that pasture among."' 
 
 The moment was tense with its terror, 
 The will of the red handed leader 
 Was law that none dared to question, 
 Yet none moved a hand to obey. 
 With a snarl that was angry and wolf-like 
 The leader drew gun and aimed slowly 
 At the boy who stood dumb and expectant, 
 Ilis heart in the' frenzy to slay. 
 
 Then out of the silence rang sharply 
 
 An order, firm, fearless, resistless: 
 
 "You fool, put that gun in its holster. 
 
 My word is your law, else you die." 
 
 Then into the murderous circle 
 
 There stepped a tall man, calm, determined. 
 
 Whose beard reaching down to his waist 
 
 band 
 Was like snows on tall summits that lie. 
 
 Straight up to the dark mounted leader 
 He strode with his weapon drawn, ready, 
 And spoke with the tone that was final: 
 "Go back to your place and remain. 
 This woman, these children, these oxen. 
 These stores that are wasted and frugal. 
 This outfit no man shall dare plunder 
 Till me that have worsted and slain." 
 
 O, strange was the power of his speaking 
 And the gleam in his eye, and in silence 
 The* bandits rode off in the twilight. 
 Molested the campers no more. 
 And kindly, resourceful and gentle. 
 The stranger enkindled a campfire, 
 Brought calmness and strength to their 
 
 spirits. 
 And watched till the darkness was o'el*. 
 
 Next morning he guided them safely 
 Down the oak scattered slopes of Tujunga 
 
Across the wide spilling river, 
 Down to the worn trail they had missed, 
 On up through the wide San Fernando 
 To the pass at the head of the valley. 
 That leads far down to the ocean. 
 Three days did he guidance insist. 
 
 At last by the flickering campfire 
 
 When the mother and son sought expression 
 
 Of the gratitude due to the stranger 
 
 His manner grew restless, intense, 
 
 "It is I who owe thanks for your kindness 
 
 The chance for a deed of atonetnent." 
 
 And this is the tale that their waiting 
 
 Bade him like a confession commence: 
 
 "These mountains to me are a prison, 
 Till death, is written my sentence. 
 Though the law has not fettered nor 
 
 scourged me, 
 I cannot my prison bars break. 
 In my zeal I did a great evil 
 That good a^ they praised it and saw it 
 Might come to my church, that was founded 
 By a prophet that God did awake. 
 
 "O God, there are stains on my fingersp 
 That glow in the watches of midnight, 
 A burning no water can lessen. 
 Nor lave the defilement of red. 
 Another and I were the leaders 
 Who ordered our comrades to ambush 
 Like Indians decked for the battle. 
 Mountain Meadow we strewed with the 
 dead. 
 
 "The law of the flag, and of Moses, 
 The law of the mind and the spirit, 
 I broke at the will of a leader 
 With a cause to promote and, defend. 
 My comrade was captured and punished, 
 I slipped from the reach of my nation. 
 
I liid where the bloodhounds of justice 
 Their scent for the prey did not seyid. 
 
 "I live with the outlaws and bandits 
 In a great yawning canyon safe hidden, 
 My heart and my mind are tormented, 
 No rest and no respite I know; 
 Did I save you from shame and destruction ? 
 I have eased mine own heart of the gnawing 
 The wrath and the torment of conscience. 
 Like a seed gnawed by worms 'neath the 
 snow. 
 
 "0, son of a heroic mother, 
 Let this truth be cut deep as with chisel: 
 False the creed and the boasted religion, 
 That ignores what God wrote on man's 
 
 heart, 
 In ourselves shines a light that is final, 
 
 What we are points a Day of last Judgment, 
 Love toward all men is a real man's religion 
 That mocks every church builder's art." 
 
 Then the stranger and ancient deliveref' 
 Rose and strode off into the darkness, 
 Mounted horse and rapidly riding 
 Passed forever out of their sight. 
 Still up in Tujunga's Big Canyon 
 Stands, gnawed by the years and the tem- 
 pests 
 The hut of the old exiled leader 
 Who wandered at last to the light. 
 
 *The Valley of the Green Verdugo Hills, 
 reaching from the Arroyo Seco to the Big 
 Tujunga, which technically speaking in- 
 cludes the La Canada, the Verdugo and the 
 Tujunga Valleys. 
 
 -The trail which passed near the County 
 Road from Montrose to Tujunga. 
 
 ' The Carpenteria valley twelve miles this 
 
•rule of Santa Barbara. 
 
 * Tlie Tujunga Valley. 
 
 '' Haines Canyon. 
 
 " Near Haines Canyon Road and Monte 
 Vista Street, Tujunga. 
 
 ' She had missed the intended route 
 through the San Fernando Valley. 
 
 ' The Big Tujunga Canyon was infested 
 with outlaws and bandits who at times had 
 a consideTable number of stolen cattle there. 
 
 '■' For years there lived in the Big Tujunga 
 Canyon, according to oldj settlers, the char- 
 acter this story describes. The facts of his- 
 tory confiiTn the traditions of the first set- 
 tlers. The other characters of the story are 
 real people, one of whom is still living. 
 
iLfiiS^ ""^ CONGRESS 
 
 iM