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Data Visualization with
Python and JavaScript
Scrape, Clean, Explore &
Transform Your Data

Kyran Dale
Data Visualization with Python and JavaScript
by Kyran Dale
Copyright © 2016 Kyran Dale. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway
North, Sebastopol, CA 95472.
O’Reilly books may be purchased for educational, business,
or sales promotional use. Online editions are also available
for most titles (http://oreilly.com/safari). For more
information, contact our corporate/institutional sales
department: 800-998-9938 or corporate@oreilly.com.
Editors: Dawn Schanafelt and
Meghan Blanchette

Production Editor: Kristen Brown

Copyeditor: Gillian McGarvey

Proofreader: Rachel Monaghan

Indexer: Judith McConville

Interior Designer: David Futato

Cover Designer: Karen Montgomery

Illustrator: Rebecca Demarest

July 2016: First Edition

Revision History for the First Edition
2016-06-29: First Release

2017-03-17: Second Release

See http://oreilly.com/catalog/errata.csp?
isbn=9781491920510 for release details.
The O’Reilly logo is a registered trademark of O’Reilly Media,
Inc. Data Visualization with Python and JavaScript, the cover
image, and related trade dress are trademarks of O’Reilly
Media, Inc.
While the publisher and the author have used good faith
efforts to ensure that the information and instructions
contained in this work are accurate, the publisher and the
author disclaim all responsibility for errors or omissions,
including without limitation responsibility for damages
resulting from the use of or reliance on this work. Use of the
information and instructions contained in this work is at
your own risk. If any code samples or other technology this
work contains or describes is subject to open source
licenses or the intellectual property rights of others, it is
your responsibility to ensure that your use thereof complies
with such licenses and/or rights.
978-1-491-92051-0
[LSI]
Preface

The chief ambition of this book is to describe a data

visualization (dataviz) toolchain that, in the era of the
Internet, is starting to predominate. The guiding principle of
this toolchain is that whatever insightful nuggets you have
managed to mine from your data deserve a home on the
web browser. Being on the Web means you can easily
choose to distribute your dataviz to a select few (using
authentication or restricting to a local network) or the whole
world. This is the big idea of the Internet and one that
dataviz is embracing at a rapid pace. And that means that
the future of dataviz involves JavaScript, the only first-class
language of the web browser. But JavaScript does not yet
have the data-processing stack needed to refine raw data,
which means data visualization is inevitably a multi-
language affair. I hope this book provides ammunition for
my belief that Python is the natural complementary
language to JavaScript’s monopoly of browser visualizations.
Although this book is a big one (that fact is felt most keenly
by the author right now), it has had to be very selective,
leaving out a lot of very cool Python and JavaScript dataviz
tools and focusing on the ones I think provide the best
building blocks. The number of cool libraries I couldn’t cover
reflects the enormous vitality of the Python and JavaScript
data science ecosystems. Even while the book was being
written, brilliant new Python and JavaScript libraries were
being introduced, and the pace continues.
I wanted to give the book some narrative structure by
setting a data transformation challenge. All data
visualization is essentially transformative, and showing the
journey from one reflection of a dataset (HTML tables and
lists) to a more modern, engaging, interactive, and,
fundamentally, browser-based one seemed a good way to
introduce key data visualization tools in a working context.
The challenge I set was to transform a basic Wikipedia list of
Nobel Prize winners into a modern, interactive, browser-
based visualization. Thus the same dataset is presented in a
more accessible, engaging form. But while the creation of
the Nobel visualization lent the book a backbone, there were
calculated redundancies. For example, although the book
uses Flask and the MongoDB-based Python-EVE API to
deliver the Nobel data to the browser, I also show how to do
it with the SQL-based Flask-RESTless. If you work in the field
of dataviz, you will need to be able to engage with both SQL
and NoSQL databases, and this book aims to be impartial.
Not every library demonstrated was used in transforming
the Nobel dataset, but all are ones I have found most useful
personally and think you will, too.
So the book is a collection of tools forming a chain, with the
creation of the Nobel visualization providing a guiding
narrative. You should be able to dip into relevant chapters
when and if the need arises; the different parts of the book
are self-contained so you can quickly review what you’ve
learned when required.
Conventions Used in This Book
The following typographical conventions are used in this
book:

Italic
Indicates new terms, URLs, email addresses, filenames,
and file extensions.
Constant width
Used for program listings, as well as within paragraphs
to refer to program elements such as variable or
function names, databases, datatypes, environment
variables, statements, and keywords.
Constant width bold
Shows commands or other text that should be typed
literally by the user.
Constant width italic
Shows text that should be replaced with user-supplied
values or by values determined by context.

TIP
This element signifies a tip or suggestion.

NOTE
This element signifies a general note.
 WARNING
This element indicates a warning or caution.
Using Code Examples
Supplemental material (code examples, exercises, etc.) is
available for download at https://github.com/Kyrand/dataviz-
with-python-and-js.
This book is here to help you get your job done. In general,
if example code is offered with this book, you may use it in
your programs and documentation. You do not need to
contact us for permission unless you’re reproducing a
significant portion of the code. For example, writing a
program that uses several chunks of code from this book
does not require permission. Selling or distributing a CD-
ROM of examples from O’Reilly books does require
permission. Answering a question by citing this book and
quoting example code does not require permission.
Incorporating a significant amount of example code from
this book into your product’s documentation does require
permission.
We appreciate, but do not require, attribution. An attribution
usually includes the title, author, publisher, and ISBN. For
example: “Data Visualization with Python and JavaScript by
Kyran Dale (O’Reilly). Copyright 2016 Kyran Dale, 978-1-
491-92051-0.”
If you feel your use of code examples falls outside fair use
or the permission given above, feel free to contact us at
permissions@oreilly.com.
O’Reilly Safari
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How to Contact Us
Please address comments and questions concerning this
book to the publisher:
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Acknowledgments
Thanks first to Meghan Blanchette, who set the ball rolling
and steered that ball through its first very rough chapters.
Dawn Schanafelt then took the helm and did the bulk of the
very necessary editing. Kristen Brown did a brilliant job
taking the book through production, aided by Gillian
McGarvey’s impressively tenacious copy editing. Working
with such talented, dedicated professionals has been an
honor and a privilege — and an education: the book would
have been so much easier to write if I’d known then what I
know now. Isn’t that always the way?
Many thanks to Amy Zielinski for making the author look
better than he deserves.
The book benefited from some very helpful feedback. So
much thanks to Christophe Viau, Tom Parslow, Peter Cook,
Ian Macinnes, and Ian Ozsvald.
I’d also like to thank the valiant bug hunters who answered
my appeal during Early Release. At time of writing, these
are Douglas Kelley, Pavel Suk, Brigham Hausman, Marco
Hemken, Noble Kennamer, Manfredi Biasutti, Matthew
Maldonado, and Geert Bauwens.
Introduction

This book aims to get you up to speed with what is, in my

opinion, the most powerful data visualization stack going:
Python and JavaScript. You’ll learn enough about big
libraries like Pandas and D3 to start crafting your own web
data visualizations and refining your own toolchain.
Expertise will come with practice, but this book presents a
shallow learning curve to basic competence.

NOTE
If you’re reading this, I’d love to hear any feedback you have. Please
post it to pyjsdataviz@kyrandale.com. Thanks a lot.
You’ll also find a working copy of the Nobel visualization the book
literally and figuratively builds toward at
http://kyrandale.com/static/pyjsdataviz/index.html.

The bulk of this book tells one of the innumerable tales of

data visualization, one carefully selected to showcase some
powerful Python and JavaScript libraries and tools which
together form a toolchain. This toolchain gathers raw,
unrefined data at its start and delivers a rich, engaging web
visualization at its end. Like all tales of data visualization, it
is a tale of transformation — in this case, transforming a
basic Wikipedia list of Nobel Prize winners into an interactive
visualization, bringing the data to life and making
exploration of the prize’s history easy and fun.
A primary motivation for writing the book is the belief that,
whatever data you have and whatever story you want to tell
with it, the natural home for the visualizations you
transform it into is the Web. As a delivery platform, it is
orders of magnitude more powerful than what came before,
and this book aims to smooth the passage from desktop- or
server-based data analysis and processing to getting the
fruits of that labor out on the Web.
But the most ambitious aim of this book is to persuade you
that working with these two powerful languages toward the
goal of delivering powerful web visualizations is actually fun
and engaging.
I think many potential dataviz programmers assume there is
a big divide between web development and doing what they
would like to do, which is program in Python and JavaScript.
Web development involves loads of arcane knowledge about
markup languages, style scripts, and administration, and
can’t be done without tools with strange names like Gulp or
Yeoman. I aim to show that, these days, that big divide can
be collapsed to a thin and very permeable membrane,
allowing you to focus on what you do well: programming
stuff (see Figure P-1) with minimal effort, relegating the web
servers to data delivery.
Figure P-1. Here be webdev dragons
Who This Book Is For
First off, this book is for anyone with a reasonable grasp of
Python or JavaScript who wants to explore one of the most
exciting areas in the data-processing ecosystem right now:
the exploding field of data visualization for the Web. It’s also
about addressing some specific pain points that in my
experience are quite common.
When you get commissioned to write a technical book,
chances are your editor will sensibly caution you to think in
terms of pain points that your book could address. The two
key pain points of this book are best illustrated by way of a
couple of stories, including one of my own and one that has
been told to me in various guises by JavaScripters I know.
Many years ago, as an academic researcher, I came across
Python and fell in love. I had been writing some fairly
complex simulations in C++, and Python’s simplicity and
power was a breath of fresh air from all the boilerplate
Makefiles, declarations, definitions, and the like.
Programming became fun. Python was the perfect glue,
playing nicely with my C++ libraries (Python wasn’t then
and still isn’t a speed demon) and doing, with consummate
ease, all the stuff that is such a pain in low-level languages
(e.g., file I/O, database access, and serialization). I started
to write all my graphical user interfaces (GUIs) and
visualizations in Python, using wxPython, PyQt, and a whole
load of other refreshingly easy toolsets. Unfortunately,
although I think some of these tools are pretty cool and
would love to share them with the world, the effort required
to package them, distribute them, and make sure they still
work with modern libraries represents a hurdle I’m unlikely
to ever overcome.
At the time, there existed what in theory was the perfect
universal distribution system for the software I’d so lovingly
crafted — namely, the web browser. Web browsers were
(and are) available on pretty much every computer on
Earth, with their own built-in, interpreted programming
language: write once, run everywhere. But Python didn’t
play in the web browser’s sandpit and browsers were
incapable of ambitious graphics and visualizations, being
pretty much limited to static images and the odd jQuery
transformation. JavaScript was a “toy” language tied to a
very slow interpreter that was good for little DOM tricks but
certainly nothing approaching what I could do on the
desktop with Python. So that route was discounted, out of
hand. My visualizations wanted to be on the Web, but there
was no route through.
Fast forward a decade or so and, thanks to an arms race
initiated by Google and their V8 engine, JavaScript is now
orders of magnitude faster; in fact, it’s now an awful lot
faster than Python.1 HTML has also tidied up its act a bit, in
the guise of HTML5. It’s a lot nicer to work with, with much
less boilerplate code. What were loosely followed and
distinctly shaky protocols like Scalable Vector Graphics
(SVG) have firmed up nicely, thanks to powerful
visualization libraries, D3 in particular. Modern browsers are
obliged to work nicely with SVG and, increasingly, 3D in the
form of WebGL and its children such as THREE.js. The
visualizations I was doing in Python are now possible on
your local web browser, and the payoff is that, with very
little effort, they can be made accessible to every desktop,
laptop, smartphone, and tablet in the world.
So why aren’t Pythonistas flocking to get their data out
there in a form they dictate? After all, the alternative to
crafting it yourself is leaving it to somebody else, something
most data scientists I know would find far from ideal. Well,
first there’s that term web development, connoting
complicated markup, opaque stylesheets, a whole slew of
new tools to learn, IDEs to master. And then there’s
JavaScript itself, a strange language, thought of as little
more than a toy until recently and having something of the
neither fish nor fowl to it. I aim to take those pain points
head-on and show that you can craft modern web
visualizations (often single-page apps) with a very minimal
amount of HTML and CSS boilerplate, allowing you to focus
on the programming, and that JavaScript is an easy leap for
the Pythonista. But you don’t have to leap; Chapter 2 is a
language bridge that aims to help Pythonistas and
JavaScripters bridge the divide between the languages by
highlighting common elements and providing simple
translations.
The second story is a common one among JavaScript data
visualizers I know. Processing data in JavaScript is far from
ideal. There are few heavyweight libraries, and although
recent functional enhancements to the language make data
munging much more pleasant, there’s still no real data-
processing ecosystem to speak of. So there’s a distinct
asymmetry between the hugely powerful visualization
libraries available (D3, as ever, is the paramount library),
and the ability to clean and process any data delivered to
the browser. All of this mandates doing your data cleaning,
processing, and exploring in another language or with a
toolkit like Tableau, and this often devolves into piecemeal
forays into vaguely remembered Matlab, the steepish
learning curve that is R, or a Java library or two.
Toolkits like Tableau, although very impressive, are often, in
my experience, ultimately frustrating for programmers.
There’s no way to replicate in a GUI the expressive power of
a good, general-purpose programming language. Plus, what
if you want to create a little web server to deliver your
processed data? That means learning at least one new web-
development-capable language.
In other words, JavaScripters starting to stretch their data
visualization are looking for a complementary data-
processing stack that requires the least investment of time
and has the shallowest learning curve.
Minimal Requirements to Use This
Book
I always feel reluctant to place restrictions on people’s
explorations, particularly in the context of programming and
the Web, which is chock-full of autodidacts (how else would
one learn with the halls of academia being light years
behind the trends?), learning fast and furiously, gloriously
uninhibited by the formal constraints that used to apply to
learning. Python and JavaScript are pretty much as simple
as it gets, programming-language-wise, and are both top
candidates for best first language. There isn’t a huge
cognitive load in interpreting the code.
In that spirit, there are expert programmers who, without
any experience of Python and JavaScript, could consume
this book and be writing custom libraries within a week.
These are also the people most likely to ignore anything I
write here, so good luck to you people if you decide to make
the effort.
For beginner programmers, fresh to Python or JavaScript,
this book is probably too advanced for you, and I
recommend taking advantage of the plethora of books, web
resources, screencasts, and the like that make learning so
easy these days. Focus on a personal itch, a problem you
want to solve, and learn to program by doing — it’s the only
way.
For people who have programmed a bit in either Python or
JavaScript, my advised threshold to entry is that you have
used a few libraries together, understand the basic idioms
of your language, and can look at a piece of novel code and
generally get a hook on what’s going on — in other words,
Pythonistas who can use a few modules of the standard
library, and JavaScripters who can not only use JQuery but
understand some of its source code.
Why Python and JavaScript?
Why JavaScript is an easy question to answer. For now and
the foreseeable future, there is only one first class, browser-
based programming language. There have been various
attempts to extend, augment, and usurp, but good old,
plain-vanilla JS is still preeminent. If you want to craft
modern, dynamic, interactive visualizations and, at the
touch of a button, deliver them to the world, at some point
you are going to run into JavaScript. You might not need to
be a Zen master, but basic competence is a fundamental
price of entry into one of the most exciting areas of modern
data science. This book hopes to get you into the ballpark.
Why Not Python on the Browser?
There are currently some very impressive initiatives aimed
at enabling Python-produced visualizations, often built on
Matplotlib, to run in the browser. They achieve this by
converting the Python code into JavaScript based on the
canvas or svg drawing contexts. The most popular and mature
of these are Bokeh and the recently open-sourced Plotly.
While these are both brilliant initiatives, I feel that in order
to do web-based dataviz, you have to bite the JavaScript
bullet to exploit the increasing potential of the medium.
That’s why, along with space constraints, I’m not covering
the Python-to-JavaScript dataviz converters.
While there is some brilliant coding behind these JavaScript
converters and many solid use cases, they do have big
limitations:
Automated code conversion may well do the job, but the
code produced is usually pretty impenetrable for a
human being.

Adapting and customizing the resulting plots using the

powerful browser-based JavaScript development
environment is likely to be very painful.

You are limited to the subset of plot types currently

available in the libraries.

Interactivity is very basic at the moment. Stitching this

together is better done in JavaScript, using the
browser’s developer tools.

Bear in mind that the people building these libraries have to

be JavaScript experts, so if you want to understand anything
of what they’re doing and eventually express yourself, then
you’ll have to get up to scratch with some JavaScript.
My basic take-home message regarding Python-to-
JavaScript conversion is that it has its place but would only
be generally justified if JavaScript were 10 times harder to
program than it is. The fiddly, iterative process of creating a
modern browser-based data visualization is hard enough
using a first-class language without having to negotiate an
indirect journey through a second-class one.
Why Python for Data Processing
Why you should choose Python for your data-processing
needs is a little more involved. For a start, there are good
alternatives as far as data processing is concerned. Let’s
deal with a few candidates for the job, starting with the
enterprise behemoth Java.

Java
Among the other main, general-purpose programming
languages, only Java offers anything like the rich ecosystem
of libraries that Python does, with considerably more native
speed too. But while Java is a lot easier to program in than
languages like C++, it isn’t, in my opinion, a particularly
nice language to program in, having rather too much in the
way of tedious boilerplate code and excessive verbiage. This
sort of thing starts to weigh heavily after a while and makes
for a hard slog at the code face. As for speed, Python’s
default interpreter is slow, but Python is a great glue
language that plays nicely with other languages. This ability
is demonstrated by the big Python data-processing libraries
like NumPy (and its dependent, Pandas), Scipy, and the like,
which use C++ and Fortran libraries to do the heavy lifting
while providing the ease of use of a simple, scripting
language.

R
The venerable R has, until recently, been the tool of choice
for many data scientists and is probably Python’s main
competitor in the space. Like Python, R benefits from a very
active community, some great tools like the plotting library
ggplot, and a syntax specially crafted for data science and
statistics. But this specialism is a double-edged sword.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
President. Slowly the yacht approached the fleet and began to
encircle it, passing first on the side opposite from Rio. The Louisiana
was the first ship to be passed. The rail was manned with men with
locked arms, the band played the Brazilian national air, the officers
stood at salute. Then the Virginia was passed and the same greeting
was repeated. Down around the line the yacht went until it drew up
near the Minnesota on the opposite side. A launch steamed off to
get the President. As he approached the Minnesota gave him
twenty-one more guns.

Then the fleet gave itself up to final preparations for departure.

Twenty minutes later the Minnesota fired another salute to mark the
President's leavetaking. He went to the Brazilian cruiser, Benjamin
Constant, which, with the rest of the Brazilian ships, sixteen in
number, was to escort the American fleet out of the harbor. By that
time the clouds had begun to descend from the hills, the wind to
blow in gusts and a few raindrops to fall. It was seen that the
waterfront was black with people. Then sharp dashes of rain swept
over the city and hid it from view. The clouds fell upon the shore in
great fog banks.

The President by this time had gone to Fort Villegagnon, the

naval station in the harbor half a mile from the beautiful Flamingo
boulevard and beach. The starting signal for the American fleet was
given precisely at 3 o'clock. Anchors were aweigh on the minute.
The harbor was so thick and black that one could scarcely see 1,000
yards. With the black smoke of the funnels of the ships being swept
down upon the water an inky darkness spread itself over everything,
and often it was with difficulty that the ship ahead at 400 yards
could be made out clearly.

As one ship after another swung in toward Villegagnon and

thundered her twenty-one good-by guns the rain descended in
sheets. If the President was reviewing the fleet no one on board
could see him. Rio was wiped out. The thunder peals from Sugar
Loaf and Corcovado at times outroared those of the guns. Nature
was saluting in angry tones. She seemed indignant that the fleet was
going away and made no bones about saying it. From 'way back on
the north where the majestic Organ Mountains nearly pierce the
clouds there came the roar of protest.

The mountain-encircled city was surely giving way to hysteria.

Sackcloth and ashes were in evidence, the furiously driving fog
clouds being the sackcloth and the soot from smoke of funnels and
powder blasts being the ashes. Half the ships had passed
Villegagnon when the rain became a patter suddenly and the veil
was lifted from Rio. The waterfront was still black. The people had
stood there for nearly an hour in a driving rain. Their fluttering
handkerchiefs could be seen plainly.

More and more the clouds lifted and once or twice old Corcovado
and Sugar Loaf peeped out as if for a final look. Then they hid their
faces. Soon the entire American fleet could be made out in the
murky atmosphere. At last the line became clear. Directly behind it
came the line of Brazilian ships. They added their salutes to the
noise of the day in passing Villegagnon, but nature had ceased to
cry out; the thunder was over.

Down at the harbor entrance were launches, rowboats, sailing

craft, ferryboats, yachts and several ocean-going liners, all loaded
down with people. Dozens of them went outside with the fleet and
rolled and tossed about while their occupants waved and shouted
good-bys. Some of the little craft ran close to the ships in the hope
of saying a frantic last good-by to the American friends they had
made at private dinner parties and receptions. A mist soon settled
upon the water and finally blotted the harbor entrance from view.
The Brazilian ships following were made out from time to time. The
good-by was over and every one was glad.

It was entirely different from the Hampton Roads departure.

There was a President present at each place, but there were twice
as many ships roaring out salutes at Rio. There were twenty times
as many people on shore. Nature smiled at Hampton Roads; nature
not only sulked but made a pitiable exhibition of her uncontrolled
anger and grief at Rio. The fresh breezes crinkled out the flags and
made them beautiful at Hampton Roads; the driving gusts tore
ensigns to ribbons at Rio and made a prolonged job of mending
bunting on all the ships.

When darkness was beginning to fall and speed cones had been
lowered and masthead and other lights had been turned on a
steamship was noticed coming out of the mist behind the fleet. She
was alive with bunting and ran straight toward the middle of the
fleet. Close at hand she began a great tooting of the whistle. She
was one of the ocean-going vessels that had been chartered for the
good-by, and she had run nearly twenty-five miles in the thick
weather for a final glimpse and farewell shriek. Rio certainly hated to
let the fleet go. Hospitality such as the Brazilians showed was never
experienced by an American fleet, or probably any other nation's,
before. It is likely to pass down as one of the brightest spots in our
naval annals.

The farewell had a double side. The emotions of the Americans

were divided for the reason that the mail had just arrived that
morning—the first mail from home in six weeks. Letters from loved
ones took the thoughts away from Rio for an hour or two, and then
came the parting with the memory of those back in the States
freshened by the missives that had come—well, naval officers don't
show it when they are blue, but that night you couldn't find three
men in the Louisiana's wardroom—the same was probably true of
the other ships—and if you made a trip around the ship, far out in
some sheltered place where the rain gusts did not fall and the wind
did not blow, you would find some fellow sitting looking blankly out
in the darkness. When you gave him a greeting you got a low growl
for an answer and you passed on.

The ordinary civilian can scarcely appreciate what it means to a

warship to get mail. Officers and men talk about it for days. The
departure of the fleet from Rio was set for December 21, but it was
seen that it meant that the mail from New York would probably be
missed by one day. The fleet was all agog as to whether Admiral
Evans would remain over one day or would leave a collier to bring
the mail on. When it was learned that the official receptions and
good-bys would require another day in port there was rejoicing.

"We'll get the mail!" was on every one's lips.

Soon word was passed that the steamship Byron, bringing it,
had reached Bahia. Then came the announcement that she would
reach Rio between 4 and 6 P. M. on January 21. The time came and
no mail ship. Then came 8, 9 and 10 o'clock, and no steamship had
been reported passing in. Long faces were everywhere. Just before 6
o'clock the next morning the lookout reported the Byron passing in.
Word was passed around and many an officer tumbled out of his
bunk to catch a sight of the vessel that had letters from home on
her. The bluejackets were already at work, but they stopped long
enough with the others to give greeting to the ship.

"The mail has come! The mail has come! The mail has come!"

You heard it everywhere. Even the bugles seemed to sound it

out. Good cheer was on all sides. Soon it was learned that the ship
had been passed by the quarantine officer. Then came a race for her
with launches. More than twenty of these boats, counting those from
auxiliaries as well as battleships, began a race to reach her. The
engineers hit 'er up and the coxswains steered as straight as they
could. Over the rollicking waves the little craft plunged and rolled
and every snort they gave seemed to say:

"The mail has come. We're after it. We'll soon be back. The mail
has come!"

The launches clustered about the ship like an eager crowd of

boys scrambling for pennies. They had to be straightened out. The
bags had been arranged on deck and then there came a stream of
men passing them down. There was an average of twenty bags to
each ship. As fast as each launch got its load it dashed back at full
speed to its ship. The bags were hurried up the sides and fairly
ripped open. Half a dozen men were set at sorting out the letters
and papers. In less than two hours after the Byron had anchored
hundreds of men were going about with a contented but far away
look upon their faces.

"Oh, yes, thank you," was a general remark. "They're all well
and they had a pleasant Christmas. Your people all right, too? That's
good. 'Twas nice to hear from home, wasn't it? Wonder when we'll
get the next one?"

There are many stock questions asked on board of a man-o'-war.

In time of conflict the chief one is:

"Wonder where we'll catch the enemy?"

In time of peace the chief one seems to be:

"Wonder where we'll get the mail?"

To a passenger on one of these ships that seems to be the most

important question to be asked and answered. Speculation as to the
time of reaching port, of remaining in port, of departing, of the
length of the cruise, as to the routine or even unusual work to be
accomplished—all these seem to be of minor importance to the
question as to when the mail will come. The American man-o'-
warsman surely does love his home and people. "God's country and
God's people!" is the way he puts it. Apparently what he cares for
most in all the world is mail from God's country and God's people.

But there will be no mail for the ships here at Punta. There used
to be a hidden post office in the straits for sailormen. It was where
the Indians could not find it. Letters and papers were left there to be
mailed and reading matter was dropped behind for another vessel to
pick up. It is said that never was that strange mail box trifled with
and never robbed. But all that was years ago.

Now there is a modern city of something like 12,000 people

here, with a Chilean post office to see that things are managed
properly; but the mails are irregular, for they still depend for their
despatch more or less on the irregular calls of steamers. Of course
there are certain vessels which make regular trips, but these are few
and far between, and you never know when you mail a letter here
how long it will be before it reaches its destination.

If you don't find the old sea post office here there is one thing
you do find, and it exists nowhere else in the world.

Did you ever hear about the willywaws? No? Well, you see 'em
here when the season's right.

Did you ever see a hobgoblin? No? Well, a willywaw isn't a

hobgoblin. Neither is it anything like a willy-boy. Any one who knows
what willywaws are knows they are a thousand times worse.

Well, what is a willywaw? We'll save that for another article. You
see there might not be much else to write about.
 CHAPTER VII
PUNTA ARENAS THE WORLD'S JUMPING-OFF
PLACE

Pleasant and Busy Life in City of Perpetual Winter—Wealthy

and Well Ruled—Millions Made in Wool, Mutton and Furs
—One Splendid Mansion Amid Many Corrugated Iron
Buildings—Famine in Postal Cards—Jack on Horseback—
Officers Found More Fun in Social Gatherings Than Out
in the Wilds—Surreptitious Traffic of a Free Port.

On Board U.S.S. Louisiana, U. S. Battle Fleet,

Punta Arenas, Feb. 7.

P
UNTA Arenas is known commonly as the jumping-off place of
the earth. The generally accepted meaning of that
characterization is that it is not only the southernmost
settlement of any size of civilized people in the world, but that it is
the most forlorn, dreary, desolate place that any one could find in
which to live.

Indeed, before this fleet arrived here it is probable that not one
person in a hundred in the United States knew where Punta Arenas
was, and those who had some vague idea about it had an
impression that it is one of those reformed penal colonies where the
driftwood of humanity huddle together, tolerate one another because
they are birds of a feather and eke out a miserable existence in
trafficking with Indians, herding sheep, looting wrecks and spending
their spare time in low ceilinged saloons gulping down liquor that
would put knockout drops to shame.

Well, it simply isn't true! Punta Arenas is a lively city of 12,000

residents, one of the best governed in the world, with all modern
improvements except trolley cars, half a dozen millionaires and
scores of men worth $500,000 or more, with one residence at least
that would hold its own more than favorably with the residences on
Madison Avenue in the Murray Hill part of New York, with excellent
schools, with a "society" that knows as well as any on earth how to
wear Paris gowns and to give entertainments as finished in all the
delicate niceties as could be found in any capital.

Punta Arenas isn't pretty in any sense and even the well-to-do
are content to live in one-story houses with corrugated iron roofs,
but it is a hustling, busy place where every comfort and luxury can
be secured, and it has a pronounced twentieth century air about it.
It resembles strongly a western Kansas or Nebraska town. Its
climate is always cool but never seriously cold. The lowest recorded
temperature in this place, which corresponds in latitude to Labrador
in the Northern Hemisphere, is 20 degrees Fahrenheit above zero.
The highest is 77. Why, there are two four-in-hands and one French
automobile, this in a town, mind you, where there are no roads out
in the country and no place except the town streets in which to
drive! Any one who has seen these smart turnouts is justified in
dropping into slang far enough to say that is going some!

There was good reason for a preconceived unfavorable opinion

of Punta Arenas. Recently there have been several flattering
accounts published of the town and its life, but they have not
received a wide circulation. Such accounts as were in the books of
travel, with probably one exception, were repellant. Here is what
William E. Curtis said in 1888, in his book entitled "The Capitals of
South America," and dedicated to Chester Alan Arthur:
 "It [Punta Arenas] belongs to Chile and was formerly a penal
colony; but one look at it is enough to convince the most incredulous
that whoever located it did not intend the convict's life to be a happy
one. It lies on a long spit that stretches out into the strait, and the
English call it Sandy Point, but a better name would be Cape
Desolation. Convicts are sent there no longer, but some of those who
were sent thither when Chile kept the seeds and harvests of her
revolutions, still remain there. There used to be a military guard
there but that was withdrawn during the war with Peru and all the
prisoners who would consent to enter the army got a ticket of leave.
The Governor resides in what was once the barracks and horses are
kept in a stockade. Hunger, decay and dreariness are inscribed upon
everything—on the faces of the men as well as on the houses they
live in—and the people look as discouraging as the mud.

"They say it rains in Punta Arenas every day. That is a mistake—

sometimes it snows. Another misrepresentation is the published
announcement that ships passing the strait always touch there.
Doubtless they desire to, and it is one of the delusions of the owners
that they do; but as the wind never ceases except for a few hours at
a time, and the bay on which the place is located is shallow, it is
only about once a week or so that a boat can land, because of the
violent surf.

"The town is interesting because it is the only settlement in

Patagonia and of course the only one in the strait. It is about 4,000
miles from the southernmost town on the west coast of South
America to the first port on the eastern coast—a voyage which
ordinarily requires fifteen days; and as Punta Arenas is about the
middle of the way it possesses some attractions. Spread out in the
mud are 250 houses, more or less, which shelter from the ceaseless
storms a community of 800 or 1,000 people, representing all sorts
and conditions of men from the primeval type to the pure Caucasian
—convicts, traders, fugitives, wrecked seamen, deserters from all the
navies in the world, Chinamen, negroes, Poles, Italians, Sandwich
Islanders, wandering Jews and human driftwood of every tongue
and clime cast up by the sea and absorbed in a community scarcely
one of which would be willing to tell why he came there or would
stay if he could get away. It is said that in Punta Arenas an
interpreter for every language known to the modern world can be
found, but although the place belongs to Chile, English is most
generally spoken."

All that may have been true in those days, except about the rain,
the wind, the shallow harbor and the impossibility of landing in a
boat more than once a week and several other items.

Here is what Frank G. Carpenter said in 1900 in his book on

South America, and it is the most favorable of any of the books
dealing with Punta Arenas:

"The city has been cut out of the woods, and as we enter it we
are reminded of the frontier settlements of our wooded Northwest.
Its houses are scattered along wide streets with many recurring
gaps and here and there a stray stump. The streets are a mass of
black mud through which huge oxen drag heavy carts by yokes
fastened to their horns. At one place the sidewalk is of concrete, at
another it is of wood, and a little further on it is of mud. Many of the
houses are built of sheets of corrugated iron, their walls wrinkled up
like a washboard, and all have roofs of this material. A few are
painted, but nearly all are of the galvanized, slaty color of the metal
as it comes from the factory.

"There is plenty of building space, but when you ask the price of
vacant lots you find that property is high. What in the United States
would be a $50 shanty is here worth $500, and a good business
corner will sell for several thousands of dollars.

"Punta Arenas has one residence which would be considered a

mansion in Washington city. This house, however, is the only one of
its kind in Punta Arenas. Most of the dwellings are one-story
structures which in the United States could be built for from $500 to
$2,000. Many of the poorer houses are occupied by rich men;
indeed, Punta Arenas has as many rich men as any frontier town of
its size. It has thirty-three men each of whom owns or controls from
25,000 to 2,500,000 acres of land. Each has tens of thousands of
sheep, and the wool clip of some of these sheep farmers is worth
more than the annual salary of the President of the United States.

"The citizens of Punta Arenas come from all parts of the world.
Some of the richest people are Russians; others are Scotchmen who
have come from the Falkland Islands to engage in sheep farming;
among them also are treacherous Spaniards, smooth-tongued
Argentines and hard-looking brigands from Chile. The lower classes
are chiefly shepherds and seamen, and among them are as many
rough characters as are to be found in our mining camps of the
West."

That extract caused you to be more interested in the place, but

still the reference to rough characters made you feel that if you were
going ashore it would be better to leave your money on the ship and
not go alone. When the fleet came in sight of the town all the
glasses in each ship that could be spared were in constant use. You
saw a gathering of dwellings, almost entirely one-story structures
and all of a slate color. There was one tower in the centre of the
place. The town stretched for nearly a mile and a half along a
sloping hill, nearly flat in the foreground, and it extended back in a
straggling way for about three-quarters of a mile. Back of the town
on rising ground was a belt of burned timber, bleak and forbidding,
and then came the sharp rise of the ground into a low range of
mountains, eight or ten miles away and about 1,500 or 1,800 feet
high, with patches of snow here and there in sheltered nooks.

"Quite a town, that!" was the general comment. The harbor

contained a dozen or fifteen steamships, coasters and tugs and was
alive with Chilean flags. Fully one-half of the buildings, many of
them mere shacks, had the Chilean flag above them. The red, white
and blue color gave bright relief to the sombre appearance of the
town. That display of bunting warmed up the Americans some.
Anchor was cast soon after noon and by 3 o'clock the first men were
ashore. The glad hand was stretched out to them.

The visitors were surprised at the place. They found shops

where everything that one could wish was to be purchased. If you
wanted your fountain pen fixed all the parts necessary were to be
obtained. If you wanted kodak supplies there they were. If you
desired paint, brass tubes, fine olives, dog biscuit, rare wines, high
grade cigars, a theatrical performance, a suit of clothes made to
order, fresh meat or fish, fresh milk, diamonds, hunting supplies,
books, hardware—well, everything that a reasonable person could
wish was to be had at moderate prices, except furs. The furs were
there by the bale, and they too were cheap when you considered
the prices you would have to pay for the same product in the United
States, but they were not cheap for Punta Arenas. Prices were
advanced 50 per cent. on furs as soon as the first man from the fleet
got ashore.

The first thing that struck the eye as the launches swung into
the long landing pier was an enormous sign painted on the sea-wall
saying:

SPECIAL PRICES FOR

THE
AMERICAN FLEET!

It was the strict truth, especially as to furs. Fox skin rugs that
had been selling for $25 went to $40. Guanaco skins that had been
$10 went up to $15. Seal skins that were $50 went to $75. The only
way to get the lower prices was to get some resident of the town to
purchase for you on the pretext that he wanted to make a gift of the
furs. Then you paid him and you got furs nearer their real Punta
Arenas value.
 The visitors found the city laid out in squares with the wide
streets in the central part of the town paved with rubble. The curbs
are marked with heavy wooden timbers and most of the walks are
narrow and covered with gravel. Probably one-third of the buildings
in the central part of town have concrete sidewalks in front of them.
The visitors also found the place well policed with men in long cloaks
and swords, bad looking men to go up against, but men who soon
had orders, apparently, to go into the back streets and disappear. At
any rate they were seldom seen in the heart of the city after Jack
got ashore, and it was whispered openly that the authorities had told
them to "go into the bosky" and let the Americans do their own
policing. This was done and the best of order prevailed during the
fleet's stay.

The visitors also found a fine water supply brought from far back
in the mountains, an excellent fire department and the streets
sewered and clean. Electric lighting was the common mode of
illumination in the shops and scores of dwellings. Most surprising
among the little things to be observed was that practically every
dwelling had an electric bell at the front door. Galvanized iron was
the predominant material for dwellings and some stores. The reason
was soon apparent. The fire regulations do not permit the erection
of wooden buildings in the city—up to date, you see—and stone and
good bricks have to be brought in. Rough bricks are made here, but
those of a better quality have to be imported. They will be made
here in time doubtless, but the town has been too busy making
money in wool, exporting mutton and selling furs to start up
manufactories for building material for home consumption strictly.
Corrugated iron is the easiest and cheapest to get and the fashion of
having a residence of that material has been so well established that
even a rich man takes it as a matter of course that he must live in
one.

As one wandered further into the town he found a central plaza

with a band stand in it, the western frontage occupied with the
Governor's residence and the Catholic church; the northern side the
site of a residence that made the visitor gape with astonishment to
find so really handsome a building in such a place, the office and
general wholesale store of Moritz Braun, the American Consular
Agent here, and the shop of José Menendez of Buenos Ayres and
Punta Arenas, the richest man in all this region. On the eastern side
of the plaza were two banks, shops, clubs and a dwelling or two.
The southern side bordered on a vacant square sold recently for
$150,000.

The plaza was quite impressive in its pretensions. As one

wandered further he observed that the city was treeless, that there
was a little railroad on one of the wide streets to the north which
leads to the coal mine in the hills about seven miles from town, that
there were few gardens and flowers. Occasionally one could see a
patch of radishes or potatoes or lettuce growing in a yard, but most
of the yards were bare, with a wood pile—wood is cheap here—as
its chief ornament. A small white pink was about the only flower that
was grown freely out of doors. In hundreds of windows, however,
there were house plants, largely geraniums, in bloom.

Street scenes occupied one's attention immediately. The most

common would be drays pulled by fine oxen with the yokes about
their horns. Better looking animals are not to be found anywhere in
the United States. All the dray work is done by these carts. There
are hundreds of them in town. The next thing to catch the eye was
the fine horses. A gaucho clad in gay colors would ride through the
streets occasionally with the easy swing of one of our cowboys and
he had a picturesque getup that would fit a circus parade at home.
You noted that when they tied horses they simply hobbled their
forefeet.

Few women were to be observed on the streets. Many of them

wore black mantillas for headdress. Now and then a smart carriage
with a coachman in livery would go dashing by. Again one would see
a pony cart with children under a nurse's care in it. Then one's eyes
would open as he saw a fine coach drawn by four horses swing
along. It made the visitor smile a little to see a big bag of potatoes
tied up behind the coach, like a trunk in the racks of stages in some
of our Western towns, but you must expect crudities of some kind in
the jumping-off place. Then would come the Governor's carriage,
correct as to livery and all the other appointments befitting his
station.

The signs were all in Spanish, of course. Saloons were found all
over. The entire aspect of things, however, was one of our Far
Western towns that had struck it rich and was in that stage where
the wealthy men are still residents of the place, actually proud to
acknowledge that they have come up from humble beginnings,
content to live where they have made their money and in humble
dwellings, and are not yet ready to advance upon New York and
build palaces that blare out to the world that they are among the
newly rich and want all mankind to know it.

After you had wandered about a bit you came back into the
plaza for a look at the one fine residence of the city. It belongs to
Mrs. Sara Braun Valenzuela, wife of Vice-Admiral de Valenzuela of
the Chilean navy. She is one of several children of the Braun family
of which Moritz Braun is now the head. The family's life has been
spent here, for their parents came here as immigrants from Russia
more than thirty-five years ago. The daughter Sara married a man
named Nogueira, who, with the rest of the Braun family, prospered
and grew rich in herding sheep and keeping store. As they prospered
they improved themselves mentally and acquired finish in social
matters. To the credit of the family it must be said that each of its
members speaks freely of his or her rise in the world, and you must
smile a little at the twinkle in their eyes as these accomplished
linguists, well-equipped business people, familiar with finance, stock
speculation, trading, correct social usages, say:

"You know our people came here as immigrants, very poor, and
had to make their way in the world, just as many of the ancestors of
the rich in your own country did. By the way, I believe that the
founder of the Astor family started out in life peddling furs and then
selling them in a store. Of course, one has to start in life as best he
can. We sold furs, of course, but the sheep and wool industry gave
us our opportunity. However, one should be modest about his
belongings. This is our home and here we shall probably stay. We
are of the town and have no aspirations except to do our share in
advancing the place and to be good citizens."

Several years ago Señor Nogueira died, leaving his wife a

millionaire. She decided to have more of the physical comforts and
she built the fine house in which she dwells. Building materials and
workmen were brought from Buenos Ayres, and the result was a
house that would do credit to any city in the world. Its glass covered
porch and its conservatory give it the appearance of the home of
one who not only appreciates luxury but has a love of flowers and
good taste in furnishings. Four years ago Mrs. Nogueira, still a young
woman comparatively, married Admiral de Valenzuela. The Admiral's
duties keep him away for the most part, but his wife remains,
content to dwell where the rest of her family reside and where she
can look after her immense business interests. She owns a good part
of the town and has an enormous income for a woman in South
America. Her house cost about $150,000 to build. The furnishings
cost well into the tens of thousands and the combined result is to
make it one of the most comfortable, luxurious and complete
dwelling places to be found anywhere. One sight of it was sufficient
to make the observer stop short and admire. It was so unexpected,
you see, after you had been wandering about in a city of corrugated
iron dwellings.

There are half a dozen other rather pretentious places in the

town. Mr. Braun's house and lot cost him about $150,000, and there
are two or three places that would be worth probably from $10,000
to $20,000 in the States. Otherwise the rich are content to dwell as
if they were in moderate circumstances.
 You wandered about the plaza some more and soon found
yourself in the rooms of the Magellanos, or the English club, well
fitted up establishments, with smoking rooms, reading rooms,
reception rooms and billiard rooms. These clubs are small compared
with those in New York, but they are complete as far as they go and
are really pleasant loafing places. Then perhaps you went across the
plaza to look at the mission Catholic church. As you went down the
side street you noticed an entrance to what seemed to be the parish
house and a school. Some one told you that in there was a museum
of natural history that was really unusual. In you went, and you met
Father Marabini, urbane, gentle, cordial and a scholar, a lover of
nature, under whose supervision a small but most valuable collection
of birds, fishes, reptiles, animals and geological specimens has been
gathered together. When many of the animals found in Patagonia
and Tierra del Fuego have been destroyed and wiped out under the
pressure of civilization, like our buffaloes and the seals, all this
country and the lovers of natural history everywhere, to say nothing
of the devotees of science, will be grateful to this humble Dominican
monk for his labor and patience of years.

In addition to natural history Father Marabini has gone into

anthropology to some extent. His collection along that line has yet to
be enlarged, but you find weapons, hunting and fishing implements,
canoes, specimens of clothing of Indians, photographs of the
aborigines, now fast disappearing. Chief Mulato, the last of the high
grade Patagonian Indians, died only recently of smallpox. The
Fuegan Indians, described as the canoe Indians and the lowest form
of humanity on earth, are also going. Speed will have to be made to
get a complete anthropological collection of these people.

In the natural history collection you see specimens of the

albatross, the largest bird that flies; the condor, all the fowl of the
region, the deer, guanacoes, otter, seals and other fur bearing
animals; you also see geological specimens bearing on the mineral
wealth of the country and also specimens devoted to pure geology.
You see the pottery and the metal working of the natives. You can
spend hours there with Father Marabini and you leave him with
regret and respect. His museum is one that would make a most
creditable showing in New York's Museum of Natural History.

You wander out to the north and you soon find a large building
surrounded by a high fence. You learn it is the Charity Hospital, with
accommodations for thirty-five patients, a boon to this far off land.
The late Dr. Nicholas Senn made a visit to this hospital late last
summer and commended it highly. He prided himself on having
visited the most northern hospital in the world at Hammerfest,
Norway, in 1890, and the most southern last year. He declared this
one to be "a credit to the young city and a refuge for the homeless
sick and injured in this hospitable and remote part of the world."

So the visitor found this a well equipped, modern city with the
residents rosy in their cheeks, cheerful and contented with their lot
in life. They said that sometimes it grew a little monotonous, but
never dreary. Most of the year they have theatricals, and just now
they have a more or less permanent company. A good many of those
on the fleet went to the vaudeville show and said they found it very
good indeed.

It was not until Mr. Braun, our Consular Agent, gave a reception
to the fleet that the full power of Punta Arenas to do the handsome
and correct thing was revealed. The guests entered a home modern
in every respect. They found a great hall whose floor was covered
with rugs, a large room behind that as big as a private saloon in
Paris, a magnificent dining room with panelled ceiling, a superbly
furnished drawing room and side rooms used for smoking or retiring
rooms. There did not seem to be a door on all the first floor. It is a
house of large floor dimensions rather than of elevation, and the first
floor was like a palace rather than a mere dwelling.

The appointments—table furnishings, beautiful candelabra,

glassware, punch bowls (there were half a dozen of them), dainty
little tables spread with confections and the main dining room table
elaborately set and decked out—were such as only great wealth
could provide.

And the company! Of course the naval officers were in full dress
with all their gilt fixings and white gloves, but every other man
there, and there were dozens, was as correctly garbed in evening
dress as at any Fifth avenue reception. The number of handsomely
gowned women was a surprise. There were probably fifty in
costumes that were distinctly Parisian. The one comment was:

"Where did they get these fine looking women?"

You didn't see them on the streets and you were astonished that
there was so much society in the place. You heard all languages
spoken and you might imagine you were in Paris. When the band
struck up it was with a quadrille. You were pleased perhaps to see
the old dances—quadrilles, lanciers, schottisches, the old waltzes—
danced. You see, the new kind of glides, two steps, walk arounds,
fancy steps they call dancing nowadays—and perhaps it is dancing—
hasn't struck Punta Arenas yet. Surely in that respect the town was
behind the times. It couldn't do the hippety-hoppety steps and the
slides and glides. Poor old fashioned Punta Arenas!

The brilliant scenes at Mr. Braun's home were duplicated two

nights later at the Governor's ball. This reception was a display in
keeping with the wealth of the place. There was no vulgarity, no
crudeness, no little amusing sidelights that showed that the town
had just arrived in a social way. It was plain that Punta Arenas knew
how to entertain. Scores of naval officers said that they never saw
entertainments in Washington in better taste.

After all this you began to investigate what it meant. There was
one answer to the question—wool and sheep. When you hunted for
statistics you got them from an official whose business it is to collect
them. You found that last November the population of the place was
11,800 and of the territory 17,000. In 1889 the population of the
territory was 2,500 and the town only 1,100. It was a pretty raw
town then. You found that in 1906 the number of sheep in the
Magellan territory was 1,873,700 and that thirty years ago it was
less than 2,000. You learned that the industry was started through
the Falkland Islanders, 200 miles to the eastward, where the Scotch
missionaries got rich quick and were not averse to worshipping
mammon to some extent. You learned that the number of tons of
wool exported last year was 7,174, that the number of refrigerated
sheep exported last year was 104,427 and that this year it would
probably be 130,000.

You learned that the imports of the town were nearly $3,000,000
a year and the exports nearly $5,000,000. You found that there was
a coal mine in operation close by, producing about 12,000 tons a
year, chiefly for local use. The coal is of the lignite variety and
disintegrates rapidly. It is improving as the shaft sinks deeper, and
the owners hope soon to have coal that they can sell to steamships.
That will help Punta Arenas a good deal.

You learned that there are three daily newspapers here, each
giving cable news. Indeed, we heard of the assassination of King
Carlos here as quickly as the rest of the civilized world. You were
even surprised to find that there is one tri-weekly newspaper in
English and you get a copy and read the list of guests at Mr. Braun's
reception, quite up to date with the society news. You learned that
Punta Arenas had been connected with the rest of the world since
December, 1902, when the overland telegraph was put through to
Buenos Ayres. You learned that there was gold in all the hills near
by; that four dredges were engaged in mining over in Fireland, as
they call Tierra del Fuego here, and one in a gulch just back of the
town. Some progress has been made with this mining and there are
Americans and men from the Transvaal engaged in the industry. A
lot of money has been put into it, but the expense of getting the
gold is still too high to make the proposition attractive to the general
public and so one need not look for a gold rush here for some time.
You learned that there was copper mining in many places, but that
the difficulty in getting transportation by water from the remote
places high up the mountains where such mines are is such as to eat
up most of the profits. You learned that about 60 per cent. of the
population is foreign, ranking as follows as to numbers: Austrian,
German, French, English, Spanish, Scandinavian and American.

The prosperity of the town you then realized depended upon

sheep and furs, chiefly sheep. You found four immense ranching
companies doing business here and you got the annual report of the
largest one, the Exploration Society of Tierra del Fuego. It has
1,200,000 shares, owned mostly by Valparaiso and Santiago people,
but Punta Arenas has 140,000 shares, of which Mr. Braun owns
62,000. This company owns 1,200,000 acres of land and its wool clip
is nearly 6,000,000 pounds. Last year it had 900,000 sheep, 14,000
cattle and 8,000 horses on its property. Its capital is $6,000,000 and
last year it paid nearly 15 per cent. in dividends. It has its property
divided into five big ranches. Altogether its real estate holdings are
as big as the State of Delaware and nearly one-half as large as the
State of Connecticut. That isn't very large compared with the entire
territory of Tierra del Fuego, because that land is as big as the State
of New York, but it is pretty big doings as sheep ranches go.
Australia and Argentina can make a slightly better showing in the
production of wool, but, as the Punta Arenas people say, this country
is still young in the business.

You began to wonder how the sheep could thrive in this terribly
cold and barren region and you were surprised to be told that really
it wasn't very cold here. You hunted that matter up for yourself and
you found that Father Marabini had been keeping a well equipped
meteorological establishment for fifteen years and you got the
printed records. You found that the average temperature for
February, the warmest month in the year, was 52.5 Fahrenheit, 11.6
centigrade; that the highest temperature for fifteen years was 77
degrees (20.59 centigrade), and that the lowest recorded in summer
in all that time was 33.8 (1.31 centigrade). That made you shiver
some. Then you looked for the lowest winter records. You found
them in July. The lowest recorded temperature for that month is 20
degrees above zero (-6.70 centigrade), and the highest 44 degrees
(7.91 centigrade). You found that the average temperature for the
three summer months in fifteen years was 52.5 (11.396 centigrade),
and the average for the winter months was 36 (2.225 centigrade).
Few places in the temperate zone can show a variation of
temperature of only sixteen degrees between winter and summer.

The temperature record and the rich grasses on the plains told
the story of sheep farming here. There isn't much snow. Now and
then there is a fall of from two to three feet, but for the most part
the snowfalls are only a few inches in depth. The greatest climatic
drawback is the searching winds. These winds blow hardest in
summer and give a decided chill to the air. The fleet was here in the
best season of the year. On two days out of the six it was
comfortable to wear light overcoats. The temperature was
something like our April weather. Occasionally it rained for a few
minutes, but four of the days were absolutely clear. We came in
when there was a high wind and a drop in the temperature and we
feared that the stay would be most uncomfortable. It was anything
but that from a climatic standpoint.

So goes the statement quoted early in this article, that it doesn't

rain every day in the year in Punta Arenas because some days it
snows. The value of the other statement that the bay is shallow is
shown by the fact that if the port hadn't been crowded the fleet
would have anchored within half a mile of the city. As it was, it
anchored about a mile out and the water was so deep that three of
the battleships had to move in a quarter of a mile because there is a
limit to the length of anchor chains. As to the impossibility of landing
more than once a week, it may be said that there never was an hour
when the launches could not land. Once or twice the wind came up
and the little craft tossed about a bit, but that happens in any port.
So goes another of the many informing things that have been said
incorrectly about this much abused and misunderstood place.
 After learning something about the business of the place the
inquirer naturally turned to the form of government. He learned that
it was a place without politics because it has no suffrage. The
Governor and three alcaldes, with a consulting board of paid city
officials, run things. The alcaldes are representative men. One
represents the foreign interests especially. They pass rules and
ordinances which are approved or disapproved by what would be
called in Santiago the Colonial Office. These laws are rarely
disapproved. The alcaldes are wise in their generation. They do not
adopt unpopular measures. Public opinion is so strong that any
alcalde who got to cutting up and attempting boss rule would find
himself so cut off from the rest of the people with whom he must
live and do business that he would feel as if he had been banished.
There is a movement to make the territory a province with political
powers of its own, but it is being fought vigorously.

"We are so well governed," said a resident of ten years to the

Sun man, "that we do not need a change. We can put the
responsibility right on the one man in our present situation. Nothing
goes wrong and our taxes amount to about $3 on $1,000 in a year.
Real estate and live stock are about the only things taxed."

Well governed as Punta Arenas is it is curious to note how

certain customs in municipal government exist the world over. Did
you notice that police official who just went by? Well, he keeps his
carriage and private coachman and his people dress well, and his
home is above the average in its pretensions. His salary? Oh, about
$1,500 a year. You see they can't pay high police salaries in a town
of 12,000 and only about fifty policemen. But there are certain
resorts which sailormen and others support in all remote places of
any size, and the authorities somehow seem not to observe them
too closely—well, there's no need to go into the matter further.

Some things, however, are a little different in Punta Arenas from

other places, because it is one of the few large free ports in the
world. You can import anything duty free. Chile had to adopt this
plan to build the place up. Even ocean freight is high to this far off
place. Argentina had to make several of its neighboring ports free in
consequence of the advantages of Punta Arenas, and so you have
about five free ports down in this neck of the woods.

Some curious effects have followed, the most interesting of

which is that Punta Arenas is one of the greatest centres of
smuggling in the world. You will not get any of its merchants to
admit it openly. For instance, it is said that there are more Havana
cigars imported into Punta Arenas than into all the rest of Chile put
together. They are not consumed here. They go somewhere. Punta
Arenas does not begin to use all the millions of goods imported. A
little figuring would show that. The outside population in the
territory, amounting to about 5,000, could not take care of the rest
after the wants of Punta Arenas are satisfied. Why, there are no less
than twenty-two coasting steamers engaged in trade from here, to
say nothing about scores of sloops and schooners darting in and out
among the islands and channels that run far up the Pacific coast.
One of the merchants gave an instance of the smuggling. He said:

"Not long ago I had several hundred articles of limited sale

consigned to me by mistake. I couldn't sell them here and didn't
want to send them back. I sent some somewhere else. They sold
like hot cakes. You see the price was so much lower than you could
buy them before in that same city where they were sent. It is true
that there is a great deal of quiet wealth here, but really you mustn't
ask too many questions."

An interesting sidelight was thrown on this subject when this

same man was talking about the illumination of the city by the
American fleet's searchlights on the night before the fleet sailed.
Fully seventy-five beams were thrown from the ships. They swept
the town fore and aft. Some of the ships concentrated their lights in
one spot. Five beams from our ship were centered upon the church
steeple in the plaza. It made the place so light that you could read a
newspaper anywhere. The entire town was in a light almost like that
of midday.

"I wonder that it didn't make some of our people run into holes
to hide," said a citizen who knew things when he was speaking of
the brilliant illumination.

As is well known, Punta Arenas started out in life as a penal

colony. It will surprise most of those who know the place and
probably some of the residents themselves that it is still a penal
colony legally, because the penal laws were never repealed. Indeed,
it is even now a place of exile. Every few months some man arrives
from the upper part of Chile who has been banished to the place.
Once here he is welcome to stay or go as he pleases. These men are
usually embezzlers or undesirable citizens from some other cause in
small places where the machinery of justice is inadequate to fit the
crime. The culprit is ordered to Punta Arenas.

It was in 1843 that Chile took possession of all this territory,

wresting it from Spain. She established a penal colony at once in
Port Famine, a few miles from here. In 1849 she removed the colony
to Punta Arenas. Two years later there was mutiny of the guards, led
by Lieut. Cambiaso. There was a good deal of slaughtering before it
was quelled. In 1877 there was another similar mutiny, and then
Chile withdrew the guards and let Punta Arenas get along as a
commercial place.

The free port regulations followed, merchants came dropping in,

fur trading became profitable and then came the sheep industry and
Punta Arenas graduated into the really modern city it is. Where it is
possible to make money there you will find people these days, for
the rovers of the earth are just as active as ever and neither cold nor
heat, sickness nor desolation will stop the march of commerce.

There are still many citizens of Punta Arenas who came here in
the days of the penal colony. Many of them were political prisoners.
Many were mere youths who had gone wrong. Scores of them have
remained and have grown up to be good citizens and solid business
men, a credit to any community. Still the memory of the past
remains with some, as was shown when the Sun man was walking
along the street with a merchant and stopped to look at a finely
dressed party of men and women going down to the pier to go off to
the Connecticut on the day of the elaborate reception on board. The
men were in frock coats and tall hats and the women in beautifully
fitting afternoon gowns.

"That's as fine a looking group of men and women as you would

see in any of our ports," said the Sun man.

"Perhaps so," said his companion, "but one has to smile a little
when one thinks of some things."

"A past?" inquired the Sun man.

"Oh, yes," was the answer, "but one shouldn't refer to that. Only
it does make me smile."

This man hadn't received an invitation to the reception. He had a

past that would bear the closest scrutiny. His point of view was
responsible for the tone of his remarks. Nevertheless, how many of
our own frontier towns could stand inspection when it comes to
investigating the careers of some of their solid citizens?

Here is a town which has fine free schools, where the Methodist
mission conducted by the Rev. J. L. Lewis not only has a
congregation of 300 but an English school of forty pupils; where the
Episcopal mission has a congregation of 400 and a mixed school of
100 children; a town where there is very little crime, and what there
is is chiefly disorderly conduct; a place where everybody is
prosperous, apparently; where life is sometimes dull, but always
comfortable, with good government, and where a man can stand on
his own merits as he is and not as he has been.
 The bluejackets enjoyed their stay here thoroughly. Only the
special first class men were allowed on shore; to have turned all the
men of the fleet loose would have swamped the town, for there
were more persons in the fleet than in the city. The men who did get
shore leave made for post card shops first. In a day nearly all the
best cards were gone. The supply lasted throughout the stay, but
now and then you would meet a party of bluejackets hunting the
town over for better specimens. So serious was this drain upon the
town that the supply of postage stamps ran out on several days. It
was necessary to go to the treasury vaults here to replenish the post
office.

The bluejackets then swamped the fur stores. Many really fine
specimens of furs can be secured here and at moderate prices
compared to those in the United States. The bluejackets spent
thousands upon thousands of dollars, and so did the officers. Fox,
guanaco, seal, otter, alpaca, vicuña, puma—any kind of fur that
seems to be in the market, except tiger's skins, was to be found.
Then the plumage of birds, ostriches, swans, gulls and so on was
sought out eagerly. Some of the skins were fully dressed and some
not, but the commonest sight in Punta Arenas for the six days the
fleet was here was hundreds of sailors making for steam launches
with great bundles of furs under their arms. Many a woman in the
States will have the opportunity of explaining to inquiring friends
that Tom or Dick or Bill got that fur for her right across from Tierra
del Fuego, and many an officer will show a floor covering with
something of the same satisfaction.

Having purchased his furs and postal cards and having taken
samples of the various brands of libation, as sailor men usually do in
foreign and home ports—it must be said in truth there was almost
no excessive drinking because only special first class men were
ashore—Jack turned his attention to other things. He soon found
that there were dozens of very good saddle horses in town and he
promptly went horseback riding. Scores of sailors could be seen
galloping about the streets. Amusing? Yes, in a way, but not because
they could not ride. Many of them rode like cowboys. You see a
large part of the young blood of this fleet, indeed most of it, comes
right off the farms, Western farms, too, and those boys know how to
ride and handle horses. The people gaped at them and then took it
as a matter of course that an American Jack tar could do almost
anything.

The officers, too, had their fun ashore. In two hours after the
fleet was anchored many of those off duty were seen in riding
costume cantering about the streets on fine horses that the chief of
police put at their disposal. An hour or two later the launches began
to land roughly dressed men with rifles and bags. They were hunting
parties, going right out to get foxes and pumas and all sorts of wild
things in the suburbs. Finally a mysterious group landed from the
Vermont. They had ponchos and picks and shovels and guns.

"Where you going?" was the inquiry on all sides.

"Ask Connolly," was the answer.

Now, Connolly is the famous writer of sea fiction, particularly

Gloucester fishing stories, the warm personal friend of the President,
and he once served in the navy two months as yeoman, at Mr.
Roosevelt's suggestion, so as to pick up local color.

"Going out to camp on the hills and discover gold!" was all you
could get out of Connolly. Late the next afternoon the bedraggled
party swung into town again. Connolly's hand was tied up. A more
trampy looking outfit never struck a town.

"What's the matter?" asked the crowd surging about Connolly on

the pier.

"Oh, nothing at all," he said, and then he looked faint and

sighed. Then began a quest for information as to whether they
found gold or shot anything, and how was Connolly hurt. Finally it
was whispered that a Tierra del Fuego Indian who had stealthily
crossed to the mainland had shot at the party and the Mauser bullet,
Mauser, mind you, had nipped Connolly and had caused a bad flesh
wound. Then it was a puma that had leaped upon him and he had
strangled it to death. Then the story went that he had been shot
accidentally by one of the party. Then he had broken his fist in a
fierce personal encounter with savages. All through this period of
rumors and yarns all Connolly could do was to nod and make a show
of great nerve in not noticing the terrible pain under which he was
suffering.

Well, there had to be an end of it, and it came out that Connolly
had slipped in wading a stream and in trying to keep himself from
falling had put a finger out of joint. He grinned over the joke and
when he was asked for details of the shooting he said:

"Honestly, we did see some puma tracks!"

That, so far as results were concerned, was the experience of all

the hunting parties. The Yankton took some of the officers across to
Fireland, about twenty miles, one day. They got some fine birds and
a fox or two and had really good sport. Punta Arenas not providing
any hunting, the officers took to receptions for the rest of the stay.

One thing that keeps impressing itself upon the patriotic

observer as this fleet goes from port to port should be mentioned. It
is the painful lack of the American flag on shipping. The English and
German flags are seen everywhere. All over this South American
country you also hear one lament from merchants. It is that there is
no American line of steamships trading directly all along the coast.
Everywhere they tell you of the great opportunities for American
goods down here.

"If you Americans would only find out what we want and then
learn how to pack the goods and then would establish steamship
lines there is immense wealth to be had in our trade. Give us
American steamship lines," is the burden of general comment.
 This is not the place for a discussion of the revival of the
American merchant marine or the best methods to attain that end.
The writer of this has no desire to go beyond the province of his
assignment, which is to chronicle the doings of the fleet, but surely
one may mention with propriety the one remark in every port that
the presence of the fleet has brought forth.

Punta Arenas was like the rest in its craving for American trade.
It may be the jumping off place of the earth, but if you did have to
jump off a ship and should land here you might be in far worse
places, and if you had to jump off from here the fact would still
remain that you might jump from more undesirable places. The
American sailor men were practically unanimous in voting Punta
Arenas all right and a tremendous surprise.
 CHAPTER VIII
THROUGH MAGELLAN STRAIT
 Fog, Shoal, Wind and Tide—Most Awesome Scenery in the
World, but Not a Place to Anchor—Start at the Witching
Hour of 11 p.m. on Friday Brought Only Good Luck to
the Long Line of U. S. Leviathans, Flanked by Its
Torpedo Flotilla—Vessels Wabble Where the Tides Meet,
but Steady Hands Curb Them Back to the Course—The
Willywaw—Island Post Office and Cape Pilar, Where No
Ship-wrecked Seaman Ever Escaped.

On Board U.S.S. Louisiana, U. S. Battle Fleet,

At Sea, Feb. 15.

W
HEN word was cabled from Chile just before Admiral Evans's
fleet swept in and out of Valparaiso harbor on February 14
that the fleet had passed through the Strait of Magellan
safely, there was probably a feeling of relief in Washington.
Admiration for the successful performance of a great feat of
seamanship was probably expressed generally throughout the world.
The passage accomplished, it was easy to say that all along every
one who had any sense knew that it would come out all right and
not for one moment had there been any real cause for anxiety. Of
course, of course!

Nevertheless all the world knows there was great anxiety and
even dread lest something serious might happen in navigating this
most treacherous and dangerous passage in the world. Even the
foreign press said that it would be a supreme test of American
seamanship to take a fleet of sixteen battleships, to say nothing of
the auxiliaries, through those waters.

It is comparatively easy to take one or two ships through the

straits. Two or three hundred skippers perform that task with
success every year. Time and again have our warships, singly and in
groups of two or three, gone through with ease. But here were
sixteen monster ships that had to go through in single file and within
about 400 yards of one another, with no place to anchor and without
the possibility of stopping, buffeted by swift tides and currents, in
danger of running into the sheer cliffs of mountains or of striking
hidden rocks in fog or possibly snow. If any serious mishap had
occurred there was nothing to do but go right on. You couldn't lay to
in these waters. If fog hid the way you must keep on and trust to
picking up headlands here and there, and you must maintain your
sustained speed of ten knots, because each vessel would then know
where its immediate predecessor or follower ought to be.

Certainly it was a difficult performance, one fraught with great

danger and grave responsibility. The chief point is, however, that the
fleet got through without the slightest mishap. It was done as easily
as entering the harbor of New York. There was not the slightest
manifestation of undue concern by any of the officers of the fleet,
but it cannot be denied that every one was keyed up to his best and
all were glad when the roll of the Pacific was felt. When it was over
all hands looked at one another and said, in the French expression,
"It is to laugh."

But you want to know all about it? Is there an impatient call for
details of this much-heralded trip of dread, a breathless demand to
know how many close calls and narrow escapes there were from
hitting sunken rocks, gliding against precipices, scraping the paint
from the ships' sides, dodging willywaws? You want to learn how
many men were nearly swept from the decks by overhanging cliffs
and limbs of trees, how often icebergs choked the narrow places,
how many times the treacherous Fuegan Indians, "the lowest form
of humanity on earth," lit their fires as signals that there would be
fine plunder and good eating of humans when one or more of these
ships went on the rocks; whether it was true that the officers and
crews went without sleep or food until all dangers were passed?

Well, if you guessed any or all those things you must guess
again. None of 'em happened. Of course the winds blew fiercely at
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