The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 13, 1897, Page 17

pears from recent publications by two tireless delve rong old books and ocumen ambridge and Was 1 that the descriptive botanical name i0ia gi-antea so lonz horne by our Sierra big trees i ble in part, a this fauity portiof second name) onterred. botanists is 1ust be e or non v enacted If the latter name is the one that must | be restored {0 our bi ncidentally the tof Wel for the third t gue us, is laid bst worthy American mented in oved =0 well. rs everywhere or itis well known tivated abroad—and so ef description of the s tree cannot fail of involve the use of to begin with the species, the coast red- at an unknown early redwood was first de- ed by Lambert of der the name of sempervirens—he thinking ed another species of vered Taxo- the the well- or bold cypress of the cher, a German that it was a dist under the name of ¢ . contra GAZING DOWN at the top f the great tall build- < reets s the diffi- at It is no easy wh is the knob that f s great hou e that San F of adove, on al name prove to | —true of | SUNDAY MORNING, JUNE 1 hali-breed Cherokee Inaian. Others con- | sider it to have been derived from sequor (to follow), alluding to the fact that our re the followers of a vanishing, prodigious race, a much more appropriate | and pleasing origin for the botanical name of our monster tree. redwoods For the second or specific name End- licher, impressed by the non-distinguish- | ing name of semperyirens given the species by Lambert, and which means simply evergreen, he wrote the distin- | guishing nawme of gigantea, making the combination Sequoia gigantea. How- ever, not feeling sure of his ground in ignoring Lambert's name, lower down on | the same page of his description he wrote | the proper binomial — Sequois semper- virens, thus fixing the full name of that | snecies beyond sl cavil forever. Uufortunately, in the light of modern rules, by h.s publication also of the word ‘‘gigantea” he unwittingly disqualified it for use again in the genus. Keeping these points in mind, we now turn to the other specics—the Sierra big | tree. A hunter named A. T. Dowd came | upon a tree of the Calaveras grove in the spring of 1852, and specimens of the fruit and foliage collected by others in 1553 were sent abroad. Because the specimens | presented several minor differences from | taxedium, Dr. Linaley, a botanist of London, supposing he had in hand the type ofa distinct genus, proudly christened | it for a British duke under the name of Wellingtonia. This was an unwise, in- delicate and distastetul aci, ior the reason the Iron Duke of England was mer o, mever in any way con- or appreciative of plants or cts in natural history, especially | of the wonderful California | bearirg its improperly conferred tish name soon spread throughout the | carriage,”” and he pointed to a sort of raf that vwas leaning against the wall, So Istood there, waiting und watching the stone as it slowly moved upward Qucer, creepy little shivers went through me as it swunz to and fro and around ana hesitated in midair. It would be so easy for it to drop that the thought made me quake, The les appeared v trail as they moved with the breeze, which was stron, Down came the derrick, swift] tully, fairly frolicking with the wind. Yet it seemed to threaten: “Now your turn comes.” | sror ON THE CIT ! botanical world and created great excite- ment. The next year, 1554, Decaisne, a French botanist, believing that the tree was merely a species of the well-known genus sequoia, published it as Sequoia rigantea. Later, the same year, Dr. Winslow of California, after an examination of the Calaveras big tree grove, proposed in a spirited letter the name, “Taxodium Washingtonianum, or, if it was not a taxodium, but a distinct genus, then *“‘Washingtoma Californica.” The year fol.owing, 1854 Mr. Seeman, another English botanist, surmising, per- haps, the untenabl-ness of Decaisne | specific name gigantea (it baving been used before in the genusas stated), and slowly we were raised above the crowd who had gatrered about us. How strange 1o be danglinz from the end of a rope on the outside of a building. to look down on 1setops, to huve everythigg sink below s, the streets and people, ‘Lotta’s foun- tain, and even the other giant buildings thatnot long ago so proudly held their heads avove all others. | the windows of the new startled-looking workmen p-ered at us in open-eyed wonder and then broke into shouts till the building from base- ment to dome seemed full of staring eyes ana shrieking voices. GAZING DOWN It’s no use saying nay to ye.” ature : looking workman as letul ook his head and reguishly d from under his stubby white eye- sat me, w time. v mi sion lere comes Mr. McGiivray. 1 that'll help ye out.” And I knew he would as soon as I saw him; this big, good-looking man, wi his honest face and kind, encouraging smile. He was inciined to be incredulons, however, when I made the request to be pulled up by the derrick like the big blocks of stone and the workmen. “‘Let her go along on this,” suggested a He's the young man who had just started a huge piece of stone up. No; send your rocks ahead,” answered the boss. *'Sne shall go up in a private MARKET STREET FROM said | 1 1 had timidly told him | AN ALT “private cai-| Iron chains bound my to the derrick—it was a first-ciass elevator. Was I afraid to ride on it? [ scorned the idea. Yet, let me whisper, mother earth did seem good to stand on. 1 was very glad when Mr. Hutchinson, a young man who has something to do with the construction of the buildirg, volun- teered to accompany me. As soon as I stepped into the “‘carriage” the fear that I bad had left m There | was room for four or five people in it. I beld tightly to the iron cnains that crossed just over my head, but found, when we | moved, that they hurt my hands and that I must stand unsupported. We did not rise suddenly as I had expected. First came a quiver down ine two long, siout | cables, then the chains rattled and creaked | |and groaved as if in protest, and very | Ob, ye women of San Frarcisco, why do you not live more in the open air? “Impossible!"” you say. There are, of course, the fortunate thou- sands wko close up roomy homes in the City ard flit away to the country each | year. To these most blessed women there is little to urge; they make it a busin 10 be out boating, riding, driving, tenn swimming, or their wheels lure them out under the skies. Thore are lawn parties and inviting nooks for them under trees or on wide verandas. If women thus wooed to health, to fresh, clean and out- door air, to the very essence of summer pleasure are olind enough to stay indoors, nothing we can say will move them—their case is hopeless and we will pass them by. 'IN THE oflice, where the long working hours of | the day were spent. And even if you do manage to get away to the country for a short time, do not let that be the end of it. Get out as much as possibie aiter you get back. Do not think | {that in a two weeks' holiday you can | | breathe enough pure air to last a year. Do | not ride up and down our streets all | evening, for there is litile fresh air there, | Make a break and go out to the park. | Make every evening a part of your hol day, and remember every bit of outdoor | | life you enjoy during the summer months | is 50 much stock in trade for the long rainy weather. | Fortunate are those who can escape a | City summer entirely, but fortunate, too, | World people. Itis in the city that the effort to get out | are those with wheels. It 1s the mother, is perceptibie. It is the thousands of City | tbe housekeeper, the busy woman, who women that aseed of ambi.jon must be | must see that meals are served and are given. If you are the fortunate possessor | g0od, that stockings are f_lrned, and of that godsend (o women, a wheel, you | F00ms clean, who will say: “i cannot go will go out. If you are busy all day the fll"imuch less stay oul. | cool of the evening will tempt you, and on Well, you are penny wise and pound our willing friend, a Mercurv on wheels | foolish. There is no aork so wearing, o | as it were, you will leave the City dirt, the | nerve-exhausting as that of the really | smell and its whirl and glide along our | busy mother of a family and she is ju-t | rural roads, expanding your lungs and | the woman of all others who should o out taking an internal bath of pure oxygen to | and stay out. - counteract the almost fetid air of store or i In the tist place, let me whisper in your | ITUDE OF 300, *FEET, ke them stop that noise—they will | attract t1e attention of the people on the street,” I implored Mr. Hutchinson. | He smiled and said: “They only mean to encourage you. Just look down and | you'il not be afraid of peovle seeing you.” | Iobeyed him, while he held my arm 10 | keep me from falling should I grow dizzy. | Much smaller than Liliiputians the peor below looked. They were more like a lot of ants than anything else. Not a face was recognizable. The streetcars were beetles. The iron arm of the derrick that | bad at first hung over the building had | slowly lifted till now it assumed an almost perpendicular position, and beld pointing upward as thou | tion to the Highest. | We had been drawn past the seven- l i itself b calling atten- teenth story, which was our station, and i 1LY | | ’ | ear. Nothing will happen to the world at | large or your worid in particular if von make a whole new regime for summe life, in which your motto shall be merely to do the pecessary for the moment and let the rest wait. Let us try tolearn alittle of the Oid | All over Europe, in every | country and among people of every class, | the women, the children, the men, all go | out and stay out from early summer until the cool of fall drives them indoors. Under the trees of the parks, on tiny bal. | conies, or on the roofs themselves, when | nothing better affords, the women sit sew- ing and talking, the children play or sieep and the men smoke and discuss the mighty affairs of life. In Philadelphia the “front steps” seem to be the baven of refuge sought by the populace as the sun goes down and work | is suspended, but they are a most unsatis- | factory substitute for the real out-of-door | iife you should bave. ! With the *“trolley” now to play “wheel” | to the wheelless, there is no reason why the American family should not desert their home nightly and seek some of the diversion of the out-door life of our parks and gardens. This is a trying age. | | /4 Domestics are an | nity, we heard no response. | est | Iam sure I thought | pended there between heaven and earth. | windows that look like portholes | below—is perfect. . i cony around this story, scarcely wider | endless, peaceful sheet of immensity. The | age enough to do it. | cave from home walls and breatbe fresh desiring to affix the British officer’s name anew to the colossal tree, published in a scientific paper, Bonplandia, the botanical vinomial thus, Sequoia Wellingtonia. Another name, Taxodium giganteum, was given the tree in 1855 by Kellogg & Be'r of San Francisco, and in 1866 Nelson of London christened it Giantabies Weil- ingioniana. Here the game of christening rested while the boianists continued their studies as (o the nature and affinities of the tree, | low’s famous soon agreeins upon the fact that it was not distinct from Sequoia and deciding | upon Decaisne’s name Sequola gigantea, a name it has borne ever sine cal literature, but the latter pa n votani- | | comes vaiii, o under the rules, 18 now declared untea- able. The laws of nomenclature enacted by several congresses of botanists, beginning with the international one at Paris in 1867, | have very much moditied the giving of | names to promote clearness and prevent confusion. Now it is decreed that priority of publication—provided certain particu- lars are observed—shall govern. During the months of August and Sep- tember, 1854, Dr. C. F. Winslow, a distin- guished naturalist of San Francisco, con- | tributed a series of six long letters descrip- tive of the biz trees, their matchless dimensions, the minuti@ of their fruit, | foliage, etc., 1n one of which occurred the following impulsive protest: The name that has been applied to this tree Professor Lindley, an Euglish botanist, is ingtonia (derived from) an English hero, a step indicating as much personal arrogance or weakness as of scientific indelicacy, for it must huve been in his mind that American naturalisis would regard with surprise and reluctance the application of a British name, | however henored, when a name so worthy as that of Washington would strike the mind of the world at large as far more suited to the most remarkable tree indigenous to a country where h ame is the most distinguished. If the big tree be a taxodium let it be called Taxodium Washingtonia. 1If it be properly ranked as a new genus let it be called to the end of time Washingtonia Calif; Nonsme can ve more approp be in accordance with the botanists I move to discar and affix that of the immortal msn whose memory we all love and teach the youth to venerate. As affairs have turned out, Dr. Wins- protest was accompanied by the proposal of certain binomials, part of one of which—Washingtonianum—be- ing to the preoccupation Also, the dedication of a of gigantea. of which, | plant to Washington was not in violation | | smended name Washingtoniana must of the rule ag grand persons, t natural history.”’ for was both a lover of and a distinguished pro- moter of the natural sciences. The law governinz the case reads: Publication of a species co; the distribution of a species, named, the publishing ot a binomix} with reference to a previously publishe Dr. Winslow last clause above. A wise regulation universally followed vorking botanists is, * lops species as & type. ction is legaiized by the adi d in travelers’ notes, unless they are more or less defective Dr. Winslow was more than a mere traveler. ie correctly described the big wrees. Moreover, he did that which alone would settle the question, he referred to Lindley’s earlier description and to his name, both parts of which afterward were found to be untenable; he proposed an- other name, W gtonfanum, which was legitin 1, correctly Latin« ized to Taxodium, and was published a year earlier than Seeman’s name of Welling 1 a journal of good standing and wide circulation, and which has been quotea in botanical descriptions of the tree ever since. Sentiment aside, deriv agree with for it has nothing to do with science, Wel- lingtonia and Gigantea are down, Sequoia and Washingtonianam stand. 71 here is but oue legitimate procedure before us. Tuking Winslow's choice and chanzing the final anum to ana, which is r to make it agree with Sequoia, able, the a2 aflixed to Sequoia and both applied as the full botanical name of the mest magniti- cent tree on the face of the e there to remain as long as science is fostered by enlightened nations, incidentally but most fittingly commemorati L d est personage in history. J. g a G. LEawonx. was swinging helplessly in the air. “‘Lower us,” called out my companion. For a few seconas, that seemed an eter- “Don’t be alarmed, there is a catch in | | the derrick,” he said to me. Iimmediately proceeded to be just as armed as I could. My first instinct | always when I'm frightenel is to run, to | get away from aanger, but here the slight- | movement would only hasten the dreadful accident I feared. So I waited motionlessly. One has to be in a position of this kind to realize just bow many thoughts can be crowded intoa second. | DOME IN than a ledge, that is to be, they say,a| premenade where flowers will grow. A | good spot this to lighten Lieavy hearts—a birthplace for thoughts as well, especi when the sun has gone away and through the dark the lightsof the City are scarcely brighter than the stars. The floor above the restaurant, my guide told me, will be almost filled with big tanks and engines to pump water, for the water works have power enough to send water oniy to the thirteenth story. When the machinery and tanks have been inclosed there will be left a width of | fifteen feet all around from the partition | A VIEW books‘ul while sus- | Suddenly there came a jerk tibat sent us swinging away out over the street and violently back, where we were caught by | strong hands and drawn safely to our| stopping-place on the seventeenth story. Then began a climb of ladders into the dome. On the eighteenth story, the first floor of the dome, the restaurant is to be. they sav—the great irresponsible *‘they" that know everything. But whata res- taurant it will be! A veritable fairyland! | At each point of the compass—north, | south, east, west—there is an alcove ju: big enough for a private dining-room. The view from their windows—those round from isa little bal- There UP MARKET STREET FROM | story of the building. to the windows, and for this Jittle space some enterprising man has offered a small fortune per month. He proposes making an observatory of it il he can get it. | Even higher than this we went—right | up into the iittle lantern, the twentieth | When the house is | completed the elevator will notgo that | far. Westepped out upon the scaffolding. Looking up irom the ground you would | think that hardly a bird couid rest there. | It perhaps appeared & courageous thing to do, but who, confronting the grandeur of the view that was beneath us, could be self-conscious? And what is fear but seli- consciousness? To the west, out through the Golden Gate, was the ocean. No waves were ap- parent. It was simply a great, biuish, | AN ALTITUDE OF Farailones tried vainly to hide bebind the fog, but they were dimly visible. The northern sights were the hills— Telcgraph, Russian and Nob—and China- town, its yellow flags and green dragons waving a wild defiance with American the br Turning to the east our own beautiful bay was the prettiest sight of all. The three majestic warships—the old moxitor, whose day is done, the Monterey and the Bennington—lay there at rest. Gray, tirea-looking ships, some flozting foreign flags, cuddled close to the wharf. Other pessels, white-winged birds, were at 300 FEET. anchor out in the water. A ferry-boats the only busy thing on the bay, puffed its way to Oakland, and little cralt with salls, swarms of white butterflies they seemed, played all over the surface. Al catraz and Goat Island were visible, but the fog concealed Qakland and other towns across the bay, which can be plainly seen on clear days. “Your carriage is waiting,” called a man from beiow, so we scrambled down the ladders to my raft on the derrick. There were several people on the seven- teentn story whom I invited to ride down with me. The descent was rapidiy made and not at all terrifying. Sill when I was on the ground again and looked at the top [ was dizzy and frightened, and wondered how I nad summoned up cour- Luey Byrp, WOMEN OF SAN FRANCISCO uncertain quantity, and many a tired, hot | City women learning something of the | woman is forced to serve a dinner that is far better than her temper to her famil Why cook that dinner at home? Why not go, the whole family, and take dinner out at one of the dozens of restaurants, value of the couatry and its refining | qualities. | Why are all the people in France so | susceptible to art; in Germany to music? One reason must surely be that they live | where the ex:ra_expense will be compen- | near to nature, and as art but portrays her | sated for by the jollity of the occasion? the Europeans? Are our men such crea- | tures of habit that they cannot stand the irregularity of summer outings? Or is it that our women lack the wish to es-| |it is a familiar face they find depicted Why do our people not “go out” as do | upon the wails of salon or academy. | From the time our race began to emerge from savagery the greatest art-loving peo- | ples have been the greatest nature-lovers. | And nature-lovers musat live out of doors. In this matter of going out do not be- air? | in to think of the things that will pre- Goout! Owing to the blessings of our | vent you from going. 1o not stand on wheels there is already great improve- ment in this matter of going out, and | never did read in the park you cannot now { what is more, our riders bring back sub- | begin. Just take each good day as it stantial evidence of their joliy outings. Through our streets the steel steeds flash by in the sunlizht, wearing the floral crowns of victors. Handle-bars almest disappear at times undera load of field flowers that find their way into rooms | where a few years ago they would have | some wicker chairs, a lot of the straw- | make up your mind to go out. teen an unheard of luxury. These field flowers in summer are worth more than any one flonst cen produce, for they prove that the City | precedent and think that because you | cores and with no fuss or prior planning go out. Plant vines. screens you can have with the very small- | est amount of labor. Then if you care to buy matting, rugs, a hammock or two, There are a dozen vine | woven mats that sre balf pillow, or the | grass-stuffed pillows, new this yesr, you | can create a perfect outdoor bower of | your porch with the outlay of but very lit- chains are -surely breaking and our tle money. | and The one care being to take the things in when the fog comes. On pleasant days sew in this bower, eat here, spend your evenings here. It is vir- tually out of doors, and the reaction from the conventiona!, the escape to your tiny arcadia will give you a positively girlish feeling. = As I have said, this watchword of “Go out” is given especially to City women, Your fathers, husbands and sons are out perforce at least some little each day, but [ it is the ambitious stay-at-home house- keeper that needs to realizs the responsie bility. You must or ought to stay young, happy, fresh, and no flower ever bloomed shut up in the close dark house, no fruit ever glowed and no woman ever did her- self or her family justice. Go out and stay out. Thousands of our women do it, their health proves their wisdom. Follow in their lead and by fall you will find that instead of wasting the summer you have spent it more profitably than ever before. Perhaps you will wisely If not as much as you would like, then as much as you can. Every little is that much vitality stored. But before you start in make up your mind to forget that stumbling-block of a word—impossible.