One of the ladies who graced the San Diego social scene in the late 1880s was an attractive widow named Evelyn Ludlum. Her deportment was excellent; she was a reliable woman with a teapot; and her declamation of "Horatius at the Bridge" brought tears to the eyes of members of the Monday Afternoon Literary Society.

    But unfortunately, the late Mr. Ludlum had been behind in his insurance premiums at the time he handed in his dinner pail, so his widow had to find immediate employment. Soon, she was a teacher of elocution and Delsarte at the highly respectable Southwest Institute, located at Third Avenue and Elm Street.

    Now forgotten, Delsarte was a genteel method of light calisthenics performed to music. In no way connected with vulgar bicep-building, it was designed to transform awkward and lumpish teenaged girls into willowy and undulating creatures capable of slithering into a ballroom with all the exciting grace of a garter snake. The elocution was for the time when they had to open their mouths.

    Evelyn was not unhappy. The school's headmistress was pleased with her efforts with the girls. She was a creator of literature, and had a small but encouraging amount of success in the field. But the swaying of young females to the music of a tinny piano and their jabber outside her room soured the latent muse that lay unreleased in her fluttering soul.

    Alas, if only she could get away for a week to some secluded sylvan retreat and there commune with nature in all its glory, she was almost certain the purple prose would come pouring out like hot beer from a suddenly ruptured can.

    Evelyn had a little overtime coming, so the headmistress gave her a week's parole. She had already written about accommodations to a rural couple who lived near Alpine. They assured her the surrounding countryside was so beautiful it was sickening, and they would be happy to put her up for a moderate stipend. Clutching her valise, the young widow boarded the afternoon stage, and after a short but bone-rattling trip was soon snugged down in the best room in the farmhouse.

    After a night of rosy dreams about rich publishers making her tempting offers and trying to press checks for large sums into her hands, she awoke to the buzzing of bees and the stomping of birds on the farmhouse roof. Evelyn bounded from her downy couch, daringly put on only three petticoats under her dress and went down to the kitchen. After consuming a breakfast fit for a longshoreman, she tripped off to the forest primeval, clutching her writing materials and a large red parasol. After all, no lady in her right mind would risk a tanned face. In those days you were socially out unless your visage was the shade of the best grade of white chalk.

    Evelyn ambled through beautiful clumps of old oak trees, down winding paths bordered with nodding daisies, across pastures inhabited by breakfasting cows, and finally came to roost atop a beautiful little knoll crowned by trees and dappled with sunshine and shadow.

    Peace at last. After a lingering and loving glance at the surrounding real estate, Evelyn dragged out her writing material and, sure enough, the words began to sputter from her pen.

    After a good, satisfying, productive spurt, she paused to inhale more brain fuel from Ma Nature. What was that? Squinting a bit, she spied, far away, a tiny figure trudging slowly along.

    Yes, it was a man, and he was heading in her direction. At this point she wanted absolutely no company. If she ignored him, perhaps he would leave her alone. Back she went to her adjectives and prepositions. When next she looked up, she discovered that the man was undoubtedly an Indian. Not long from the East, Evelyn had heard a great deal about Indians, and most of it was highly discouraging.

    The man strode on. He appeared to be moving faster. He was getting awfully close. A wave of panic swept over Evelyn. Here she was, alone, almost two miles from the safety of the farmhouse, and an Indian was almost upon her.

    She sprang up and started walking rapidly down the rocky path toward the farmhouse. After a few moments, she looked back over her shoulder. The Indian had reached the knoll and was coming down the other side. The frightened widow gave an inward shriek and broke into a panic-stricken run. Her follower began to trot.

    Delsarte was great for posture, but it wasn’t much good for training cross-country runners. The fugitive was soon puffing and wheezing as she sped down the path. She looked back. The man was gaining. She gave an extra spurt of speed. If she stopped now, it might be her last minute on earth! On she went, staggering and tripping over rocks and bramble bushes. Behind her, she heard the relentless padding of bare feet growing closer and closer. A sharp pain shot through her side; she couldn’t go another step! She stopped and turned to meet the foe, steel-tipped pen poised at the thrust. On came the Indian. His face was contorted. His heavily muscled chest showed through an open shirt. Sweat poured from his scowling brow. He stopped in front of her, panting heavily and glowering at the terrified woman. Then, peering up at the sky, the Indian gave a snort of sheer disgust and muttered: "Women ... women ... damn women ..."

    Then he lowered his gaze and from behind his back drew forth a long, thick, ominous-appearing "thing." "For Pete's sake, lady," he puffed. "I thought I'd never catch up with you. Here's your danged parasol!"

    Longtime newspaperman "Woody" Lockwood has forgotten more about San Diego history than most historians remember. Retired from daily newspaper work, he is researching a book on military food.