We are on our way up the valley. The train left San Francisco in the morning. We have crossed the bay and rounded the Contra Costa Mountains, and Mount Diablo, with its majestic twin peaks, lies already behind us. We have just crossed the San Joaquin river not far from its mouth; the west side of the valley is on our right; on the left looms up the Sierra Nevada, far away it is true, but grand and imposing, gradually decreasing, as it were, towards the south, finally to disappear among the clouds at the farther end of the valley. It is in the middle of August; the day is warm, but there has been a shower in the mountains, as is usual at this season of the year, a sprinkling of rain has purified the atmosphere in the foothills, which stand out clear and bright, a contrast to the dusty road in the center of the valley, over which the smoking train carries us at a rapid speed. On both sides of us stretch apparently endless plains, thirty miles wide,—to the Coast Range on one side, to the Sierra Nevada on the other,—plains dry and yellow, parched in the brilliant sun, shaded by no clouds, but cooled by a steady breeze from the northwest following us up the valley. Up, we say, but it is hardly any more up than down, the ascent being about one foot to the mile; it is rather a journey over one of the most level plains on the continent, but still the popular usage insists upon saying “up the valley.” Acres and acres of already harvested grainfields are seen on both sides, crossed by roads at right angles; here and there are stacks of grain which have not yet been threshed, or heaps of straw, where the threshing engine has done its work; on almost every section of land we see a farmhouse and barn, a few gum-trees or cottonwoods, and many a windmill and elevated tank informs us where the farmer gets his water for his house and his scanty trees. All this we see under a blazing sun and a quivering air.

This is the great San Joaquin valley, the fertile center of California. Of the much spoken of irrigation of California, we see almost nothing; the land is dry and thirsty, the soil is loose, and the engine forces the dust in a cloud before us. Nothing green is seen anywhere except a few scattered trees far, far apart. Here and there we pass a little town with wooden houses and dusty streets, with wooden churches whose spires do not pierce the sky. We cross many streams, several of which are dry, or have sluggish waters, while some wind their way down the valley between banks covered with willows and cottonwoods. Yet there is something grand in this immense stretch of open, level country, with its frame of snowy mountains, with its fertile fields waiting for the winter’s rain or irrigating ditch to produce abundantly of almost anything that can be grown in any temperate country in the world. The numerous grain stacks speak of the fertility of the soil and of abundant harvests, while the vegetation along the rivers indicates that water is all that is needed to make this large valley like a fruitful garden.

We have passed Lathrop and Modesto and numerous smaller stations between; the picture is everywhere the same. At Atwater we met the first signs of irrigation, and saw young vineyards and orchards on either side, and as we approach Merced we pass large irrigating ditches flowing with water, and in the distance many houses and farms. The country is getting greener, and the deep color of the soil is a sign that it is rich and fertile. At Merced there is a Yosemite air. The large El Capitan Hotel stands out like a landmark, and the garden with its flowers and shade trees, and the marble fountain with its rippling waters, speak loudly of beauty and refinement.

Close to Merced are situated some of the new promising colonies which are making raisin-growing one of their specialties, and in whatever direction we look we see signs of such new enterprises, all young, of course, as irrigation has only lately been brought in here, where no dense settlements could exist without it. Much of the land is yet held in very large tracts, but they are being rapidly subdivided and sold out to actual settlers as fast as there is any demand for them. To our right lies a splendid body of perfectly level land occupied by the Yosemite Colony with many settlers already on the land, whose new and cosy cottages mark their future homes.

In the distance, on the slope of the low hills, stand out prominently a number of houses, some of them quite pretentious, white and gleaming in their new dress. This is the Rotterdam Colony, a settlement of Hollanders who have only lately arrived here. There is not a colony anywhere which promises to be more interesting, and which is likely to prove a greater success. The Dutch as a people had succeeded with colonization long before any other nation began a similar work, and, as immigrants to this State, they are most desirable. Industrious, saving, intelligent and persevering, with good land, plenty of water at all times of the year, and with a good location which insures health and comfort, there is no reason why they should not succeed. The colony is most beautifully situated on high sloping ground,—a veritable mesa land overlooking the vast Merced plains, and only four or five miles distant from the city. These Hollander colonists are the very best kind of settlers the State can get,—not the ignorant peasantry of Europe, but intelligent and well-educated people, which any community can be proud of. There is great activity in the colony just now. Thousands of acres are covered with magnificent grain, which, without any more rain, would give a profit of from twenty to twenty-five dollars per acre, and thus materially help to pay for the land. A hundred or more horses and mules with their drivers are plowing and harrowing the soil; and such a plowing is not often seen anywhere. The plows are set about a foot deep, and the work is done by the canal company just to help the settlers along and give them a good start. What more can they expect? Good treatment is in Merced dealt out to everybody,—a good policy which should be followed in every new colony in the land. We stop at the newly-built house of Mr. Canne, a gentleman of middle age with a large family, and hearty and pleasing, as is so characteristic of the Dutch. His house is large, very comfortable and airy, with large verandas overlooking the country far and wide. Inside everything is cosy and neat, with lots of mementoes from quaint old Holland, with colored china on the walls and odd tables and odder bric-a-brac, family heirlooms from generations back. The old grandma, with her eighty-one years, has come along with the younger folks, happy as they, and, as they, meeting bravely and with confidence new times and experiences in the new country which they have chosen as their home. Our wishes for good luck are not needed; it is sure to come when such people are settled upon such land, and when everybody enjoys everybody else’s good-will. The land which is now being broken is to be planted to olives, almonds, oranges, peaches and vines,—a very good selection indeed, and one which cannot fail to prove profitable. The deep red soil on the mesa will grow almost anything, and with proper care and management this colony must in the near future become one of the most attractive and prosperous in the State.

The Rotterdam Colony is bounded on one side by the now famous and often described Crocker and Huffman reservoir. Those who believe that a reservoir in the foothills is not the proper thing should come and take a look at this one, and be convinced that it is. The location is a most favorable one, being ninety feet above the town of Merced, and elevated sufficiently to irrigate the whole of the level surrounding district, containing two hundred and sixty thousand acres. The water covers now about six hundred and forty acres which were formerly a real and natural valley, across the mouth of which the dam checking the water was thrown. The average depth of water is about thirty feet, while in some places it is fifty odd feet deep. The statistics of this reservoir and dam have been given often enough, but more or less correctly. The dam checking the water is four thousand feet long, two hundred and seventy-five feet wide at the base, twenty feet on the top and sixty feet high in the center. It took four hundred mules and two hundred and fifty men two years to build it. The reservoir and canal tapping Merced river cost together two million dollars to build, and the work was constructed in such a substantial and scientifically correct manner, that it will be likely to last for ages. There is no other irrigation system in the State that is as well planned and carried out. This can and must be said to the honor of the constructors. The canal which taps the river is twenty-seven miles long, from sixty to seventy feet wide on the bottom, one hundred feet on the top, and has fall enough to carry four thousand cubic feet of water per second.

We have already remarked that the country between the dam and the city of Merced is a magnificent and level body of land, all eminently suited for irrigation. From the water tower in the reservoir, we overlook all this land, now in its spring dress a very beautiful sight indeed. The vast sheet of water, like a placid lake, in which the Sierra Nevada reflects its snowy peaks, the prairie extending far and wide, divided between luxuriant grainfields and unbroken lands now covered with their spring carpet of flowers in the colors of the rainbow,—yellow, white, blue, violet, red and shades of each, and dotted over with the new settlers’ homes, freshly built and freshly painted,—what more lovely view could we wish, a sight of beauty and of plenty. As we drive back to town, we are more than at first impressed with the lay of the land. The surface is level and without hills or knolls, but is cut through by many natural channels or creeks from fifteen to twenty feet deep, insuring a natural drainage, invaluable in a country where irrigation is required.

The soil in this part of Merced county appears to be made up entirely of alluvial deposits from the various creeks which in winter irrigate the plains with their natural overflow. The largest of these creeks is Bear creek, its deep channel resembling rather an irrigation ditch constructed on the latest engineering principles than a natural stream. Its banks are even and slanting, while its bed is deep below the surface.

But our time to stay was short. We have left Merced and many smaller towns behind us, crossed many more dry streams, and passed the large vineyards at Minturn, where sherry and port of excellent quality are made. We have again crossed the main channel of the upper San Joaquin, not far from where it emerges from the Sierra Nevada, its silvery waters winding their way over the thirsty plains between steep and barren banks. We have crossed a few irrigating ditches full to overflowing with water, and see a few orchards and vineyards with their bright green scattered about on the yellow plains. There is suddenly a general stir in the cars, hats and bundles are taken down from the racks, most of the passengers prepare to move, the locomotive whistles, houses and trees are seen on both sides through the car windows, the train comes to a standstill, there is a hum of voices, a waiting crowd swarms around the cars, a throng of people pushes in, and another throng pushes out. We are among the latter, as we are now in Fresno, the largest raisin center on the continent.

Fresno, as seen from the railroad station, is not as inviting as it might be, and the thousands of travelers who pass by on the cars, headed farther south, can judge but little of the town and the district behind it. The country is so level, that the only way to get a good view of the country is to ascend some elevated building, the courthouse being the highest, and through its location the best suited building for the purpose. The early forenoon, before the noonday sun has acquired its full power, is the best time for this. Once up there, the view is decidedly magnificent, and more extensive than we had ever expected while below. Under us lies a lovely park of trees,—umbrella, elm, locust and fan palms, covering about four blocks. From it stretch the regular streets in all directions, lined by cottages as well as with costly dwelling-houses, shaded with stately trees of various kinds. The business portion of the town presents itself particularly well,—large and costly hotels, with comforts that the tired travelers enjoy so much, imposing bank blocks of brick and stone, with towers and ornamental roofs, solid structures with continuous lines of stores, etc., mark this part of town. For a mile in every direction the town stretches out, the center thickly built, the outskirts with sparsely scattered houses. Adjoining these the country begins,—vineyards as far as we can trace, groups of houses shaded by trees in different tints of green, while broken rows of endless poplars traverse the verdant plains and lose themselves in the distant horizon. The Sierra Nevada, with their snowclad summits, and the Coast Range in the west, cloudy and less distinct, form the frame for two sides of this attractive picture, while to the north and the south the open horizon, where sky and plains meet, limits the extensive view.

The street-car lines of Fresno do not run very far out in the country, and to see the latter we must procure a team. The colonies or settlements of small farms immediately join the town limits; we are thus with one step out in the country. On either side we see continuous rows of vineyards,—the leaves green and brilliant, the vines planted in squares and pruned low, with the branches trailing on the ground. To begin with, the houses stand closely, almost as in a village. As we get farther out there is a house on every twenty-acre farm, or every one-eighth of a mile. The cottages are neat and tasty, surrounded by shade trees, while rose-trees and shrubbery adorn the yard, and climbers shelter the verandas from the sun. At every step, almost, we pass teams going in various directions,—teams loaded with raisin boxes, teams with raisin trays, teams crowded with raisin pickers hurrying out to the vineyards, teams driven by raisin-growers or colonists generally, who rush to and from town to transact business connected with their one great industry. Everywhere is bustle and life; every one is in a hurry, as the grape-picking has begun, and the weather is favorable; no one has any time to lose. Some of the avenues are lined with elm-trees, others with fig-trees, with their luscious, drooping fruit, others again are bordered with evergreen and towering gums, with weeping branches and silvery bark. Every acre is carefully cultivated; there is room for only a few weeds. As far as we drive the same scene is everywhere, a scene like that in the outskirts of a populous city, where villas and pleasure grounds alternate with the cultivated acres, here those of the raisin-grower, and where every foot of ground is guarded with zealous care and made to produce to its utmost capacity. It is a pretty sight, a sight of thrift and intelligence, of enterprise and of success, of wealth and of refinement, found nowhere else outside of the fruit-growing and raisin-producing districts of California.

The raisin harvest has just begun; the vineyards are full of workers, grape-pickers are stooping by every vine, and are arranging the grapes on small square or oblong trays, large enough to be easily handled; teams with trucks are passing between the vines distributing the trays or piling them up in small, square stacks at every row. Some trays with their amber grapes lie flat on the ground in long continuous rows between the vines, others again are slightly raised so as to catch as much of the sun as possible. In some vineyards the laborers are turning the partially cured and dried raisins by placing one tray on top of another, and then turning them quickly over. In other places, again, the trays with the raisins already cured are stacked in low piles, so as to exclude the sun and air, and at other stacks a couple of men at each are busy assorting the grapes, and placing the various grades in different sweatboxes, large enough to hold one hundred pounds each. In every vineyard, large and small, we find the hands at work, and every one able and willing to do a day’s work is engaged to harvest the large crop. The most of the pickers are Chinese, at least in the larger vineyards, while in the smaller vineyards, where large gangs of men are not absolutely necessary, white men and boys are generally employed. The fame of the raisin section and the harvest has spread far and wide, and at picking time laborers gather from all parts of the State to take part in the work, and find remunerative wages at from $1.25 to $1.50 per day. The country now swarms with pickers of all nationalities,—Germans, Armenians, Chinese, Americans, Scandinavians, etc., and as the schools have closed in order to allow the children to take part in the work, boys of all sizes are frequently seen kneeling at the vines.

The crop this year is very heavy, many vines yielding two trays or even three, containing twenty pounds each, and, as the trays are generally placed in alternate rows between the vines, we see, as we pass, continuous lines of them filled with grapes in various stages of curing, from the green to the amber-colored and the dark of the fully-cured raisin. The aroma from the drying berries is noticeable, and the breeze is laden with the spicy and pronounced odor of the Muscatel raisins.

The average size of a colony lot is twenty acres. Many settlers own two or three lots, a few owning four or five. But it must not be understood that the whole of these lots are planted to raisin grapes. While most of the larger tracts are almost exclusively planted to raisin grapes, the smaller farms of twenty acres contain as a rule only a few acres of vines, the balance being occupied by alfalfa, berries, garden, fruit trees, and yard for houses and barns. From three to fifteen acres of raisin-vines are found on every twenty-acre farm; none is without its patch of raisin-vines. We step off and inspect many of the places, large as well as small. Magnificent vineyards are owned by T. C. White, one of the oldest and most successful vineyardists, and by other parties, only second in importance to his. The vineyard of the late Miss Austin is yet in its prime, the evergreen trees and hedges being as inviting as in days of old. New vineyards which have not yet come into bearing are seen on every side, while in places whole orchards or single rows of trees have yielded to the axe to be replaced by the better-paying raisin-vines.

Some of the best-paying and largest vineyards are found east of Fresno City. From the very outskirts of the city we pass through raisin vineyards, very few fields being planted with anything else. Near the town some vineyards have given place to town lots, and whole villages are growing up in the old vineyards. We pass by the large vineyard of Frank Ball, containing about 120 acres, all in vines except a small reserve for house, barn and alfalfa field. Adjoining on the same road is the Bretzner vineyard of forty odd acres, the vines loaded with grapes. We turn to the left and, passing the vineyards of Merriam and Reed, see on our left the magnificent Cory vineyard of eighty acres, bordered by a wonderfully beautiful row of umbrella trees, with crowns as even as veritable gigantic umbrellas, and through the foliage of which not a ray of light can penetrate. A little farther on, also to the left, is the Gordon vineyard, lined by fan palms and fig trees. A large sign across the main road announces that we now enter the Butler vineyard, the largest and most famous vineyard in the State, with its six hundred acres nearly all in vines,—the largest vineyard in one body and owned by one man in the world. Magnificent avenues of poplars, magnolias and fan palms stretch in various directions leading to the outbuildings, of which the packing and drying houses appear most prominently. Mr. Butler’s home is one of the most attractive, shaded by umbrella trees and fantastic fan palms, and surrounded by flowers and evergreens. From his vineyard alone over five hundred carloads of raisins have been shipped, the yearly product being over one hundred thousand boxes of raisins,—a thousand tons. The vineyard now swarms with laborers; the teams wait in long lines to load the ready raisin-boxes, while the spaces between the vines, as far as we can see, are almost covered with continuous rows of trays, all loaded with Muscat grapes in all stages of drying.

We travel constantly eastward; on both sides are raisin vineyards, large and small. The four hundred acres owned by the Fresno Vineyard Company are devoted to wine grapes, and large wineries and cellars built of adobe show the wealth and extensive business of the place. No vacant land anywhere, nothing but vineyards, the only breaks being groves of trees shading the homes, wine cellars or packing-houses of the proprietor. Farther to the north lies in an unbroken row the well-known Eisen vineyard, where the first raisins were made in this district, but where now principally wine is produced; the Nevada and Temperance Colonies, devoted mostly to raisins; the Pew, the Kennedy, the Forsyth, Woodworth’s, Duncan’s, Goodman’s and Backman’s raisin vineyards, all splendidly cared for and lined by fig trees. Of these the Forsyth vineyard deserves more than a passing notice, as it is more inviting to an hour’s rest than any other. Containing 160 acres, nearly all in vines, it is one of the best properties of the county. The place shows an uncommon taste and refinement, and is beautified by avenues of poplars and magnolias, by groves of acacia and umbrella trees, by palms and flowers, and by roses and climbing plants. A pond with its lilies, overhung by weeping willows and shaded by stately elms, is an unusual sight even in this county of abundant irrigation. The packing-houses and dryer all display a taste and practical arrangement hardly seen elsewhere. A climb to the top of the tank-house is well worth the trouble. The view becomes wonderfully enlarged; we overlook the level plains, all in vines, with houses and groves scattered about like islands in a sea,—no wild, unbroken country anywhere. In the distance is Fresno City, to the north the view is hemmed in by new vineyards and colonies,—a mass of trees and vines in straight and regular rows. The courteous owner conducts us through his packing-house and shows us how the bunches are placed in layers and carefully made to fit every corner in the box, how the boxes are covered with papers and artistic labels and finally made ready for the market. As we pass out we get a glimpse of the equalizing room, crowded to the ceiling with sweatboxes, in which the raisins assume an even and uniform moisture. And what luscious bunches they are, large, sweet, thin skinned and highly flavored. Malaga produces nothing better, and much not as good. And, when we are all through tasting and admiring, we are invited into the cosy and artistically furnished dwelling, where in the cool shade the lunch and the rest are as welcome and interesting as the vineyards and packing-houses outside.

As we turn again towards town, we pass the well-kept Goodman vineyard, after which we enter the large Barton vineyard, now partly owned by an English syndicate. The old 640 acres are nearly all in wine grapes, while several hundred acres of young raisin grapes have lately been added. One of the most extensive wine cellars in the State is found here, all kept in splendid shape,—hardly a speck of dirt, not a foot of waste land seen anywhere. The mansion is stately, situated on a small hill surrounded by fine groves of gum-trees, evergreen hedges and ornamental grounds. Should we care to go farther east, we might visit the Eisen vineyard, where the first Muscats were planted in the county. The famous avenue is half a mile long, and one of the most beautiful in the State, lined on both sides with blooming and beautiful oleanders alternating with poplars over a hundred feet high. We might also visit the Locan vineyard and orchard, and admire the orange-trees, which speak of what the country can produce in this line. But the time is too short; we might travel a week over this level but beautiful country, and every day, every minute, see something new and interesting among all these vineyards, with their packing-houses, and raisins exposed on trays to dry.

When we return to town, a visit to the packing-houses is one of the most interesting that can be made. Of these packing establishments Fresno has four or five, besides several in the colonies or in the larger vineyards. Three of these packing-houses are the largest in the State. The building of each one of them, though large, is full and overcrowded. Women at long tables pack the raisins in boxes, at other tables men weigh and assort raisins and take them out of the large sweatboxes in which they left the field. At some tables fancy packing is done, and women “face” the boxes by placing large selected raisins in rows on the top layers. At another table the raisin-boxes are covered with fine colored labels, then nailed and made ready for shipment. Some four hundred men and women are busy with this work under one roof, all earning wages of from one to two dollars a day each. We catch a glimpse of the equalizing room, where fifty tons of raisins are stored at one time for a week or more in order to become of even moisture, the floor being sometimes sprinkled with water to make the air sufficiently moist. As we go out we see the raisin-boxes already packed being loaded on cars and shipped east by the train-load, from four to six such raisin trains leaving every week, each train of from ten to twenty cars. On the other side of the packing-house is a continuous row of teams from the country, all loaded with raisins, brought by the country growers to the packers in town. It takes a gang of men to receive, weigh and unload them. In another department we see the large stemmer and grader, which runs by steam, and stems and assorts from thirty to forty tons per day, the clean and uniform raisins running out in a continuous stream, each grade in separate boxes. There is a restless activity on every side. The large raisin crop this year is very large; it must be handled in a few months, and every grower and packer is pushing the work to his utmost ability.

When we consider that most of the crop, which this year will reach five hundred thousand boxes, comes from the country immediately surrounding Fresno City, and that the San Joaquin valley is 250 miles long by 75 miles wide, almost all the land capable of being highly cultivated and of producing abundant crops of one thing or another, then alone can we realize what the future has in store for this wonderful valley, an agricultural empire in the very center of California.

FROM LOS ANGELES TO SANTA ANA.

We are fairly out of Los Angeles when the character of the scenery changes. The railroad here runs through one of the most fertile counties in the State,—the rich bottom lands being formed by the deposits of ages from the overflow of rivers and creeks from the Sierra Madre range. Not an acre of waste land is to be seen anywhere. Everything is clothed in the softest green, and only in the far distance are seen the hills and higher mountains of a brownish violet color, with the boldest outlines against the sky. A more diversified farming district is seldom seen. Orchards of prunes, walnuts, apples and figs are met with on either side of the track, here and there expansive vineyards with their characteristic green, or groves of straight and stately gums, like immense square blocks of verdure, planted all along from the nearest fields to the far distant hills. We pass in succession Ballona, Florence, Downey and Norwalk. The country around the two latter places seems especially attractive,—orchards as far as we can see, vineyards and native pastures. We pass villages and farmhouses, here and there a more pretentious villa, and, in some spots more lovely than the surrounding, many a mansion has been erected with luxury and taste.

We are soon in Orange county, and the scene changes some, the soil being, if possible, more fertile. We pass large orange groves of the deepest green, and immense fields of corn, squashes, pumpkins, peanuts, beans, and here and there walnut groves and plantations of young fig trees. Anaheim, Orange and Santa Ana come in quick succession; we are in the center of a raisin district of the very greatest interest. We can hardly realize the change. Not having been here since the boom, everything seems almost new. Santa Ana has grown to be the queen of the valley, and is undoubtedly, together with its two sister cities, Orange and Tustin, one of the most prosperous as well as lovely places to be found in the beautiful South. As we board the street car and ride up town from the depot, we realize the change even more. On every side are signs of wealth and refinement, of new ideas and new capital, both mostly imported from the East. Broad avenues one hundred feet wide, on either side, lined with trees of various kinds, cultivated fields immediately beyond, which, with cottages, villas and churches, all speak of a prosperous and intelligent population.

Santa Ana has her share of these stately structures. The Brunswick is as fine and substantial a building as any one could wish,—lofty and airy and of imposing architecture, large rooms and spacious halls. The boom that has been so much misjudged has done much more than settle up the country and bring capital. It has left behind substantial improvements and a taste for architecture, the arts and sciences, which can but be of permanent value to the country. It brought the country at one bound from its former frontier life and characteristics to a high degree of civilization and refinement. It brought capital, soil, climate and energy together in a way that is hardly found anywhere else out of our State. The boom is over, but the benefits of the boom are yet here, and are permanent.

Santa Ana, Orange and Tustin are like three precious stones in a ring of verdure. Only a few miles apart, they are like the villas on the outskirts of a central imaginary city, from which the wealthy and poor likewise fled to a more retired country life, to enjoy both seclusion and society, both the pleasures of country life and the advantages of an active city, where every luxury and necessity can be found at the door of every home.

Santa Ana has a fine, large, central business street, with new and costly brick blocks containing stores of every description. In this climate, however, we can see no necessity for ice, and the manufacturer and mixer of cool drinks can but find his business unprofitable. Up and down this street a line of cars runs all day long at fixed hours, connecting with other lines in Tustin and Orange. A trip or two on any of the lines is one of real pleasure.

Tustin is only two or three miles away, nearer the hills. The car, an open one with many seats, winds its way under shady lanes on either side, bordered by large and graceful pepper trees covered with spicy and fragrant blossoms. Here and there we see alongside the pavement an enormous sycamore tree, a monument of olden days and the native vegetation of the country. On both sides of the avenue are sidewalks of cement, and they who prefer walking can do so for miles under the shady trees without getting dusty or becoming heated by the sun. These sidewalks are marvels of beauty and comfort. On one side are old and graceful trees with drooping limbs, on the other are well-kept cypress hedges trimmed square and even, or long natural barriers of ever-blooming geraniums in numerous varieties, of every favorite shade of color from crimson to palest pink. Over the hedges we look into blue-grass lawns, green and well kept and exceedingly attractive. Suddenly we are in the middle of Tustin City. A beautiful, even magnificent bank building on one corner, a store on the opposite, two or three smaller shops and the inevitable splendid and elaborate hotel, and the town is fully described. Immediately adjoining are the beautiful and evergreen lawns and trees,—the city and country actually combined.

A trip to Orange reveals the very same features, only we pass through a more fertile country, with vineyards and orchards on every side, orange groves of various ages, walnut orchards, fields of tall corn, peanuts, beans and melons. Between all wind the shaded avenues with pepper and gum, cypress, pine or yellow flowering grevillea. The soil is everywhere of the richest kind, of a color between ashy green and chocolate. Nowhere have we seen such magnificent Indian corn,—whole fields where the stalks are from twelve to sixteen feet high. Orange is a more pretentious town than Tustin, but hardly any more beautiful, and far less secluded and quiet. There are two large and fine hotels, the one of brick being in town, while the other, the family hotel, lies in the suburbs in bowers of evergreen trees and gardens. In the middle of the town there is a plaza with a fountain and an exquisite little garden well planned and better kept. The lawns are like the softest velvet, and are bordered with blue and green flowers, with beds of sweetest mignonette, while bananas and palms spread their stately foliage in the center.

The climate of this part of Southern California is excellent. The thermometer stands at midday at eighty in the shade; in the evening there is always a breeze. Many of those I meet complain as usual, and greet me with the inevitable, “How warm it is to-day,” and our as inevitable answer is, that we cannot feel it, and that it just seems delightful to us. People here observe and feel the changes of temperature much more than we do farther north. With us they share the habit of complaining even if there is nothing to complain of.

The vineyards of Santa Ana have suffered much from a vine disease which may be compared with consumption or the Oriental plague in man. But every one thinks here that the pest will run its course and become harmless, and even now some of the vineyards are being replanted with fresh vines. The oranges do eminently well, but they must be sprayed and constant watch kept for the red scale imported here from Australia by an enterprising nurseryman. The plantations of walnuts are being rapidly extended, and nurseries of young walnut trees just appearing above the ground are seen in many places, the plants probably amounting to millions. The walnut generally planted is the seedling soft-shell and the common Santa Ana walnut, than which there is none choicer and more valued on the coast. Prunes are also a favorite crop, and pay well if not allowed to overbear, in which case the succeeding crop will be small. The same may be said of the apricot. These trees are here fine and healthy, and of a deeper and finer green than is seen almost anywhere else; but last year the trees bore too much, and this year the crop is by far not what it should be.

The resources of this country are such that the partial failure of a single crop will cause no serious injury. New resources are developed every day; there are few plants that do not thrive here. In the gardens as well as in the fields we see the tender semi-tropical plants, which cannot stand any frost, growing close to varieties from the North. Bananas, date palms, walnuts and oranges grow in the same field with peaches, apples and prunes. Pepper and camphor trees and the tender grevillea are on one side of the avenue, while on the other side we may find elm, eucalyptus or even the beautiful umbrella.

Irrigation is practiced on every farm. Fifteen thousand acres are covered by water stock, but not all irrigated yet. Just now the orange groves are irrigated, and I observe their methods. The land is always leveled before anything is planted, as there is too little water here to waste any on unlevel land. One way to irrigate an orchard is to plow furrows in between the rows of trees, and then let the water run in them. Another way is to check the whole orchard with small levees, inclosing thus a little square around every tree, and the square check of one tree meeting the same of the adjoining tree. This is actually flooding the land. Deciduous trees and vines grow without irrigation, but to get a good crop irrigation is necessary. The large, dry and rocky creek beds speak of the water that is wasted in winter time in flowing to the sea. Practically nothing of it is then saved. Irrigation districts under the Wright law are formed and forming, and everybody seems hopeful that in course of time there will be water enough to irrigate all the land that is good enough to be irrigated. Some of the finest ranches in the State lie right at the feet of Santa Ana. The San Joaquin ranch contains one hundred thousand acres, I am told, and it is not yet cut up, and thus some of the best land around Santa Ana is yet only used as pasture. The owners failed to sell in the time of the boom and must now wait until the land that is already covered with ditches will be fully settled before they can sell, but the time, we predict, is not very far off.

SANTA ANA TO SAN DIEGO.

A railroad trip from Santa Ana to San Diego offers many points of interest. It carries us through both the most highly cultivated and through the absolutely vacant, not to say barren, lands. We leave the orange grove and walnut plantations of Santa Ana, and are carried almost immediately past the lovely and shaded Tustin, where pepper groves and lime hedges, gardens and splendid villas, combine nature with art, taste and enterprise to create a veritable oasis for those favored ones who can remain there. We rush for a few minutes through these highly cultivated lands, and suddenly find ourselves out on a wide, open plain, comprising about eighty thousand acres, without a house to be seen anywhere, with no orchards, no vineyards, no signs of civilized life. And still the soil is the richest, the native vegetation of grasses the most luxuriant. The soil is apparently subirrigated, and could grow almost anything the farmer might plant there. Along the horizon, stretching from the mountains way down on the plains like an immense plumed serpent in its wavy and coiling track, is seen a continuous band of sycamore trees, outlining the bed of a stream. It is like stepping out of one room into another. What can be the reason of the sudden change? This vast body of land, containing over 126,000 acres, is an old Mexican grant, the remnant of one of those Mexican cancers, which to such an extent has retarded the development of California. Sure enough, we see wire fences everywhere, and cattle with spreading horns and sheep without number. But we see no sign of the cultivator, no horses, no signs of progress. The owner held onto the land, probably expecting it to bring a price many times the sum it was worth. He died, and so died the boom, and now the land is under administration. When the time comes that this large San Joaquin grant can be sold to farmers in small tracts, it will very greatly increase the cultivable area of Orange county.

But we pass on, leaving the open country; we are soon in among the rolling lands, among foothills not unlike those of the Sierra Nevada in the San Joaquin valley. To the left are the San Bernardino Mountains, here and there a peak of boldest outline, and streams and caÑons winding their way to the sea. At El Toro a number of passengers got off to take the stage to Laguna, a seaside hotel, where the farmers and business men of every color, from the heated interior valleys, delight to spend a day in fishing, hunting for abalones, or in watching the breakers roll against the sandy beach. A little farther on we stop at El Capistrano, or rather at San Juan Capistrano, the old ruined mission, situated in the most beautiful little valley, with its winding and sycamore shaded creek. The mission must have been one of the very largest in the State. The ruins are yet very extensive, consisting of long and regular adobe walls, and one-half of a yet magnificent looking church, in the regular Spanish style of architecture. A rather large size town of Mexican houses, with a Mexican population, and venerable fig trees, tall and wavy palm trees, and large but unkempt gardens, give the place a rather more important look than it perhaps deserves. There is but little sign that the boom was ever here. Still the valley is so beautiful and evidently so fertile, that it needs only work and taste to make it equal to the very best. We see yet the old mission pear trees, large and untrimmed, not unlike our drooping oaks, loaded with pears to such an extent that there appears hardly room for a blackbird to get through. The mission grapevines are all dead. Gigantic vines, which covered trellises and arbors, and which perhaps bore tons of grapes, with trunks as heavy as the body of a boy, are there yet, but without leaves and young shoots; they are dead, having surrendered to the vine pest of the country.

After leaving Capistrano we follow the little creek to the sea. The valley is from one-half to one mile wide. Here and there are flourishing little vineyards, but mostly pastures and cornfields or patches of beans. At last we reach the sea, the Pacific, calm and blue, with breakers lashing the shore. To the right we leave the rocky promontory of the Capistrano Mountains, and for an hour or more run on the very beach. In stormy weather the spray of the breakers must wet the cars, which run only a stone’s throw from the water’s edge. This part of the route is the most interesting and the most refreshing to one coming from the interior plains. We are now in San Diego county. The shore is abrupt and bluffy, the hills bordering on the sea.

At Oceanside we meet the first of the boom towns, one of those that sprang up for pleasure and profit, towns of magnificent villas, broad streets and avenues, lined with infant blue gums, with rows and hedges of the ever-bright geraniums, and with large and splendid-looking hotels, with airy balconies, verandas and lookout towers, swept by the fresh breezes of the sea. The vicinity of every such station is heralded by the characteristic white stakes that mark the town lots, and by rows of small, intensely blue, gums; by a sprinkling of cottages, small and large, perhaps a mile or two before the whistle of the steam-engine brings us to a standstill. The first things that meet our eye at every station are large and splendid lawns, young plantations of palm trees and other plants characteristic of the Southern coast climate, flowers of brightest hue, all started by the enterprising immigrants who came here to buy climate, sun and air, and to enjoy the breakers and the ocean every day in the year. After Oceanside, we touch at Carlsbad and Del Mar, both seaside resorts with magnificent villas costing from twenty to forty thousand dollars each, and with fine but young plantations and gardens. I was especially charmed with Del Mar, with its large, tasteful hotel on the bluff, and quite a large colony of villas and mansions in various sizes and styles close around,—a bright and charming picture, a place where a traveler feels at home at once, where he would like to pass the balance of all the days he can spare from business and toil.

The scene changes again as the cars carry us through the foothills, along the bed of creeks, or across lagoons connected with the sea, or over gaping chasms. We look down deep into the valleys below, where shady sycamores and white cottages mark the farmers’ homes, and where vine-clad hills offset the native brown of the country. I am surprised to see how the grapevines thrive so luxuriantly so very close to the shore. In some places there are fine and thrifty vines within a stone’s throw of the breakers, only protected by a slight undulation in the ground from the most direct wind. Of course, grapes on those vines cannot be expected to be very sweet; it is wonderful enough that they are there at all.

The water supply of this part of San Diego county has been very much underrated. The railroad crosses perhaps a dozen different creeks, all showing living water, and which are far from being entirely dried up. With a Supreme Court more enlightened, and with proper legislation as to the needs of the country, San Diego county may yet be able to store water enough to irrigate very large areas of land, where colonies of thrifty farmers may create and maintain prosperous orchards and vineyards as a support and backbone to the many pleasure resorts.

But we are out of the hills. Smiling and glistening in the evening sun lies San Diego Bay, with the elevated Point Loma, the ever-present breakers on the bar, and away out on the low peninsula the gigantic and turreted pile of the Hotel del Coronado, to say nothing of San Diego itself, with its miles of marked town lots and villas. But I shall not endeavor to describe this town and its bay and climate. The latter may possibly not be excelled anywhere; the former lacks a most essential thing,—an abundance of trees and vegetation. Still, with the water that has lately been brought here the trees and flowers will come soon enough we hope, when green lawns, bananas and palms will be ready to tell the tale, and young plantations will be seen on the hills and around roadway homes. But I forget I am bound for El Cajon and its raisin vineyards, and must catch the train.

EL CAJON.

The country lying between San Diego and El Cajon does not at this time of the year present many attractive features. The little train, consisting of a locomotive, tender and a passenger car, wriggles itself between brown, rolling hills, over small caÑons, dry and sandy, without any other vegetation than grass, and here and there a few evergreen shrubs. Close to San Diego we pass along the Chollas valley and creek, where an attempt has been made at colonization, as we understand it in the San Joaquin valley. The land is divided up in ten and twenty-acre tracts and dotted over with small and unpretentious cottages, as well as with fine and expensive mansions. Young orchards of pears, olives, prunes, oranges and figs are seen wedged in between vacant and unbroken land. In the river bottom are Chinese gardens, with windmills, and patches of cabbage, corn and small truck. Much of this land is irrigated with water from the Sweetwater dam, some twelve miles away on the Sweetwater river. On the bottom land there are a few Muscat vineyards, for the supply of the San Diego market. I noticed the grapes there. They were of the Muscat of Alexandria variety, very large and fine both as to bunch and berry, and very sweet. I have seen no finer Alexandrias anywhere.

But we have hardly time to observe this cultivated spot before we are out again among the rolling hills. The engine pants heavily, and we are constantly ascending. The same low hills everywhere,—no settlers, no gardens, no plantations of any kind. The soil is brown adobe mixed with gravel and small boulders; in fact there is nothing to see and admire. For twenty miles there are two or three small stations, but there were no station houses to be seen nor any settlements around. The railroad is apparently made to tap a better country in the interior. But even in this uninhabited country the boom started to penetrate in earnest. Large signs announcing the sale of town lots, wide streets once plowed up across each other at right angles, square blocks which are plowed around or otherwise mapped out, here and there a white post with a number and a name, and we have a good idea of a town where the lots sold for $250 apiece or more.

All at once the engine whistles, the area widens and we see in front of us a large, flat valley, apparently almost circular, from four to five miles across, bounded by lower and higher hills, behind which a few higher peaks look down gray and solemn. This is El Cajon. We step out on the platform of the station, and the view is fine. The valley lies below us, the bottom is apparently flat, but in reality slightly undulating and somewhat sloping towards the center. Rows of vines begin at the station, and from here vineyards stretch in all directions for miles and miles, sometimes in large blocks of regular shape, then again in irregular patches among otherwise cultivated lands half way up on the lower hills. Dotted all over the valley are farmhouses in all styles, elegant and tasty or plain and simple, enough only to keep out the rain and the sun. Around every such cluster of buildings there is a little plantation of eucalyptus and cypress, and a few ornamental plants. Here and there at long intervals is seen a row of gums, black and somber, as if they were on duty as shields from wind and fog. We are soon in the bus on the way to town. The roads are straight and well kept, bordered with young eucalyptus and cypress, and with vineyards on both sides with the rows of vines remarkably distinct; we can follow each one of them distinctly for several miles over the undulating ground until they end on the steeper slopes of the hills, or run into the little caÑons bordering the valley. El Cajon has no pretentions to being a town; it is an unassuming and quiet little village, whose inhabitants, when they speak of “town,” always mean San Diego, twenty miles away. El Cajon has a dozen houses, all told, one of each kind of the most necessary stores and shops, but Wells, Fargo & Co. have not yet discovered this quiet place. Nevertheless, it has two hotels, one small and unassuming, which runs a bus to the station, and where everybody seems to meet; the other, large and pretentious, both as to bay-windows and name,—Corona del Cajon, but apparently void of much internal life. The railroad to El Cajon was finished only some eight months ago. If it had been running three years ago during the Southern boom, the valley would perhaps to-day be rivaling Pasadena and Riverside in thrifty farms and residences.

El Cajon is the most important raisin-producing district in San Diego county, and so exclusively and to such an extent have the raisin grapes been planted here that we hardly see anything else. Vineyards as far as we can see in all directions; vineyards in the rolling bottom of the valley; vineyards also on the steeper slopes of the hills; nothing else than Muscats of Alexandria for business, and only a few other vines around the cottages for home use. A drive through the valley brings us in close contact with what we saw from the more elevated station. One vineyard joins the other, with only a road between, and there are no rows of poplars and only very rarely a row of eucalyptus or cypress. The view is open on every side, and from every point we can see over the valley and the low hills surrounding it. The vines have at this time of the year left off growing and have assumed a dark green color, not relieved by any young and more vividly colored shoots. The grapes hang ripe under the branches, and the trays are in many places distributed in piles over the field. There are two packing-houses in the valley; the one now under way is 40 by 130 feet, being built of redwood, and apparently most carefully put up. I see no sign of irrigation anywhere, and every one tells me that it is not required. But I cannot help thinking that a little water judiciously used would have kept the vines growing much longer, and would have naturally increased the crop, which now only averages two and one-half tons of green grapes per acre. There are many very beautiful mansions in the valley, surrounded by very praiseworthy attempts at landscape gardening, but the absence of water for irrigation makes itself felt everywhere, both in regard to the size of the plants and their color. Water can be had in abundance at a depth of from only twelve to eighteen feet, and windmills and reservoirs would do much towards a substitute for ditches. As we drive through the valley and up the divide between El Cajon and the Sweetwater valley, the view is very attractive indeed,—on one side the many well-kept vineyards of El Cajon, on the other, way below us, the narrow and winding valley of the Sweetwater.

The Sweetwater valley, or rather continuation of valleys, is much smaller than El Cajon, perhaps only a quarter or half mile wide, but it is more favorable to raisins, grapes or vegetation of any kind. Olive orchards of good size trees, vineyards with large and yet growing vines, cornfields and pastures, and the winding and shaded little creek in the center of the valley, give the latter a freshness and beauty not surpassed anywhere.

On our way on the railroad as well as through El Cajon valley, we have frequently passed alongside of or under the now famous Cuyamaca flume, carrying water to San Diego and Coronado. This flume is a fine structure, running sometimes in the ground, sometimes again on elevated trestle-work over the ravines, or spanning the gaps between lofty hills. The whole length of the flume is thirty-six miles, and the cost of construction was $112,000. Its size is five feet, ten inches wide, and sixteen inches deep, but by an addition of two more boards the depth of the water can be increased to three feet, ten inches,—a large body of water for this country, where water is comparatively scarce. The flume heads in a magnificent dam at the head of San Diego river, and it would suffice to irrigate quite a large stretch of country if the people were only willing to use the water. But the farmers here have been so repeatedly told that the land absolutely needs no irrigation, and indeed would be ruined by the same, that the most of them now fully believe this to be the case. The water is therefore not diverted anywhere along the route of the flume, and even in El Cajon and other places, where the crop of almost every kind of fruit would be doubled by judicious irrigation, no effort to use the same is made. I could find no one who irrigated, and as a consequence the company that owns the flume have not yet put in the extra boards that would more than double the carrying capacity of the flume.

One of the most interesting places in San Diego county is the famous Sweetwater dam. It takes only two and one-half hours to visit it and return, and a trip to it will repay the trouble. We start out southeast and cross to National City, only a few miles from San Diego, and really a suburb of that town. National City is decidedly new, an attempt at something grand, which it will take sometime to finish. The most interesting thing there, in a horticultural sense, is the olive orchards of Kimball Brothers. They are scattered in two or three places, and comprise about fifty acres altogether. The trees are as large as good size apple trees, bushy and silvery, and are heavily laden with fruit. The land around each tree was checked up, each tree having a little square for itself, and a Chinaman with a hoe was busy irrigating. In one corner of the orchard was a large circular reservoir five or six feet high, and perhaps twenty feet across, to facilitate the irrigation. The train starts from here directly in among the hills, following the bed of the Sweetwater river. The bottom land is now being settled up by farmers and gardeners, who were busy taking their first lessons in irrigation. The plantations of course are very young, the irrigation works having been finished quite recently. At Sunnyside there are a few older orchards of oranges and olives, but, as a whole, the country is uncultivated.

Five minutes more and we are at the dam. There is no station, except a little wooden platform, and we had to scramble over a rough hill to get down to the dam. The gorge there is probably one hundred feet wide and several hundred feet deep, with almost perpendicular sides. There is no other vegetation visible than grass and a few low shrubs scattered around. It is a most excellent place for a dam. The Sweetwater dam is built almost entirely of masonry and cement, and, both as regards construction and size, is one of the very best in the world. It is built in the shape of an arch, with the convex part up stream, and gives an impression of solidity and safety not always found in structures of this kind. The masonry dam is forty-six feet wide at the bottom, at the top twelve feet. The length of the top is 340 feet, and at the bottom of the caÑon the base of the dam is about one hundred feet, while the height is about ninety feet in the center. At one end of the dam is a wasteway and gates for letting the water out in case of a flood. The gates slide on an inclined plane, and consist simply of three-inch boards with pegs in each end, which are caught by a hook when they are to be raised. The capacity of the wasteway is said to be fifteen hundred cubic feet per second, or as much as the Sweetwater river is ever likely to carry, even during flood time. For one who is accustomed to headgates and waterways in the Fresno canals, this waterway looks very small indeed. But the engineers say it is large enough, and we suppose they must be right. The water is delivered through a large iron pipe thirty-six inches in diameter, covered for some distance down the caÑon with masonry. For 29,807 feet, this pipe line runs down the valley or on the mesa lands adjoining it. It will deliver fifty million gallons of water per day, and can now irrigate ten thousand acres of land. The whole cost of construction was $502,000, and the time consumed in building was two years.

The reservoir, as it now stands, is a magnificent sheet of water with tributary watersheds of 186 square miles, and a water surface of about three and one-half square miles. It is a grand illustration of the enterprise of the San Diego capitalists, of the skill and success of the California engineers, and of what may possibly be accomplished on nearly every stream in San Diego county. It is a structure of which any country might be proud, and which has few equals and no superiors anywhere in the world.

On our way back we meet a picnic party of schoolgirls, who with their teachers have spent the day in the country. They fill the cars with smiles and chat, with flowers in bouquets and garlands, in baskets and by the armful. We are treated to flowers and to beautiful Muscat grapes culled from the vineyards,—enormous bunches and berries almost as large as plums. These grapes are a revelation to me, grown here within the reach of the fogs of the ocean, and irrigated with water from the dam or flume. Verily, I have never seen choicer grapes anywhere, and I am satisfied that they could not be surpassed by any for raisins. What a fertile country this will be when irrigation is better understood and more practiced. Could we but see it when that time comes.

RIVERSIDE.

There is no place in Southern California where the effects of a close and intelligent study of horticultural matters are so visible as in Riverside. Money alone may build villas and mansions; but the intelligent and ever watchful horticulturist alone can, out of climate, soil, water and capital, produce a Riverside. It is charming beyond description; it must be seen to be realized. The best time to get a full and good view of Riverside is early in the morning, just at sunrise, and there is no better place to view it from than the hill on which the Hotel Rubidoux was to have been built. I arose before sunrise, and struggled up the steep hillside. It well repaid me for the trouble, as few more beautiful views can be had. The whole settlement can be taken in at a glance,—the town close by imbedded in orange groves and vineyards, and the dense verdure of the country stretching for ten miles down the valley, and almost connecting with the yet farther off South Riverside. On the eastern side we see the San Bernardino Mountains, with the “Old Greyback,” and between the mountains and the settlements a lower range of steep hills appear, which in a continuous range either bar the way or like isolated islands shoot boldly up from the mesa land.

The Riverside colony forms a continuous settlement along the mesa, skirting the river, the deep green of the orange orchards harmonizing splendidly with the lighter green of the vineyards. At close intervals there are houses in every direction, with the bluest smoke rising straight up from their chimneys, and thence carried in long, tiny bands and columns down the valley just level with the tree tops. It is a pity the hotel on this hill was never finished—a great many more would then have enjoyed the almost unequaled view. An extension of the main business street in town leads up to this hill. On both sides of the street there are fine orange orchards and neat houses,—real country homes, sidewalks of cement where rows of fan-palms take the place of regular shade trees along their sides. The business portion of Riverside is confined to two streets crossing each other at right angles. If we stand in the center of this crossing we take it all in, the houses extending a block and a half in the four different directions. Some of the houses and brick blocks are very large and expensive, while many again are smaller, but all are costly and elegant, with new and perhaps startling ornamental designs. Whatever Southern California does, it does well, and even the cheapest structures have an air of character and taste which can hardly be too much admired.

When one speaks of Riverside he means the whole settlement that is irrigated, and to live in Riverside may mean to live in town, or it may mean a suburban residence ten miles away. In the latter locality the benefits of the country are happily combined with the luxuries of city life. Street cars run from the center of the business part of town down to the end of the settlement. It is a cheap way to view the settlement to board one of these early cars. You can see as much as any one may care to see, but of course cannot stop and examine. The whole drive is one not to be matched anywhere else. From the moment you leave town you pass orchards and vineyards separated from each other by only a road or cypress hedge. Every foot of ground is taken up. The main effort of all the settlers appears to be to make everything attractive, from the very sidewalk to the elaborate garden and the villa. Nearer town, every street has sidewalks of cement, and bordering them are continuous hedges of cypress trimmed in various styles, and in front of every house are lawns and plats of shrubbery and flowers, as neatly kept as if visitors were expected day or night. Some of the villas partake of the character of mansions, with towers, balconies and painted windows, while here and there in some of the finest orchards are yet seen some of the first houses built, small and unpretentious. The individual tastes of the owners are clearly discernible. One has a row of palms running along his sidewalk, another has palms and grevilleas, while others prefer the pepper and gum. The manner of trimming the hedges is charming; it has here become quite an art. Some hedges have square, others roofed tops, and at every corner there is a little pillar of cypress with diamond or globular top, not at all artificial or stiff.

The vast majority of the plantations consist of orange groves. The color of the trees is splendid, every leaf being bright and shining, and there is no sign of smut or scale. The large and upright Seedlings are easily distinguished from the smaller but bushy Navels. The tendency is now to plant mostly the latter, and most of the old Seedling trees are being budded over. The original Navel tree, which is the prime cause of the prosperity of Riverside and of the fame of its oranges, is yet standing by a modest cottage, which appears not to have kept pace with the times. The tree is small, perhaps twelve feet high, having been constantly cut back for buds. From this tree have sprung all the rest. No other Navel tree imported from Brazil or Australia resembles it in quality of fruit or in bearing capacity. It is probably a chance “sport” originally imported by the Agricultural Department at Washington, its companion trees being different in the most essential points which make this variety so valuable and so famous. This beautiful and choice orange, now generally known as the “Washington Navel,” is slightly oblong or egg-shaped, and the skin is very smooth, with no ridges at the poles, the latter being characteristic of the other Navel varieties. The crop of Navels this year is good. Many growers expect from three to four boxes to the tree, and, as each box brings from three to four dollars, it is evident the business pays. The valuable and permanent improvements everywhere show this to be the case; the account books of the grower need not be searched to demonstrate it. Here and there we also see a lemon orchard with its larger trees of a different green. A few years ago many lemon orchards were dug up, as no one understood the secret of saving the lemons till the warm season, when alone they can bring a good price. But at last one of the growers wrung the secret from Nature, and now buys up all the young lemons he can find and stores them away to be used from six to ten months later, just when they are most in demand. In company with that courteous horticulturist, the editor of the Riverside Press, E. W. Holmes, we visited this gentleman, G. W. Garcelon. To him is due much credit for having discovered the process. He presented us with lemons of the small and proper size that had been picked green eight months ago. They were equal to the best imported, both as to smallness of size, acidity, thinness of skin and quality of juice. These lemons bring now five dollars per box, at which price lemon culture proves more profitable than that of the orange.

The only variety that should be planted is the Lisbon lemon, the Eureka having too bitter a peel, and the much recommended Villa Franca being round and thus unacceptable. We passed several vineyards, the Muscat vines being large and the vineyards well kept. The grapes are just ripening, but it will be some two weeks yet before they are ready to cut. The only variety grown here is the Muscat of Alexandria, the real Gordo Blanco being unknown, or at least not generally planted.

The far-famed Magnolia avenue is near at hand. The center is occupied by a continuous row of old pepper trees, with gracefully drooping branches, under which the cars run. The outside rows are different in various places, generally palms with alternating grevilleas, or gum or pepper trees. The custom now is to replace the outside trees with palms, and many of the stately gums are being cut away. Beyond the sidewalks are the trimmed cypress hedges, and behind them orange orchards, only interrupted by open lawns and gardens partially hiding the tasty dwelling-houses of the horticulturists. All that we see, now so luxuriant and beautiful, is the effect of water on the otherwise barren plains. Everything is irrigated several times a year by means of flowing water brought from distant points, from the mountain caÑons, or from the artesian wells in the river bottom higher up, several miles away.

The canals are all on the highest ground, and are dug on technical principles. There is no washing and no filling up, no broken-down gates and overflowing and stagnant ponds. Some ditches are cemented, and look magnificently clean, without any weeds or mud. The water in them is like the water of a spring, clear and pellucid. In course of time all the ditches will be cemented, the cost for doing the work being paid for in a short time by the water saved and the absence of the necessary cleaning out.

Riverside is indeed to be envied its Chinatown. The latter was, some years ago, moved a mile from town into a hollow, and now every house there is surrounded by cypress hedges and windbreaks of cypress and gum. Moreover, every house there is connected with the sewerage system, and the usual smell is not noticed on the outside. Indeed, one can drive by and not know the nature of the town, for it looks like any other country village, almost hidden in evergreens.

In a few weeks the raisin harvest will commence, and from that time on Riverside, along its whole extent, will be life and bustle. When the grapes are all in, the oranges will be ready for harvesting, and the country will again boast of its thousands of carloads of the golden fruit.

REDLANDS.

We have reached the object of our journey in the upper end of the San Bernardino valley. One of the features of South California, not Southern California, as we in the center all used to say, is the motor roads, not electric motors, but regular little steam engines, that will pull you anywhere, and which will not shock you with anything except perhaps with their smoke. Such motor roads lead almost everywhere, connecting the outlying colonies way up in the mesa with the headquarters on the regular railroad. And these motor roads are neither neglected, nor do they go begging for customers and freight. They are as much or more patronized even than the regular railroads, and they pay well. The cause of this is evident. They are more accommodating; they can without inconvenience stop wherever required, and passengers get on or off at almost every corner. The little train stops with equal readiness at the call in front of the rich man’s villa, to enable him and his family to embark, as at the poor man’s garden, to allow him to get on with a load of greens or with a basket of eggs. Thus managed, it rushes along with short and frequent stops, always full of passengers and freight.

Going up the San Bernardino valley from Riverside is a trip that no one should neglect. It takes us through one of the best improved parts of South California, through a veritable garden spot, with a radius of six or seven miles. From Riverside we pass for several miles over the level mesa land, just brought into cultivation through the new Gage canal system. Over two thousand acres have been planted here within the last two years to oranges, lemons and vines, and the fine and regularly planted trees with the large distances between show us how much the new settlers have been able to profit from the experience of the older ones. For several miles there are young plantations, each with its neat and substantial residence and outhouses, indicating that the settlers mostly are people of some means and of much refinement and taste,—just the class of people that we all would choose for our nearest neighbors. Everywhere are school-houses of artistic designs, most magnificent ones in the older settlements, smaller but tasty ones in those of almost yesterday. As we pass along the mesa, the upper San Bernardino valley, closed in by steep and lofty mountains, lies on our right, and in front the Santa Ana river courses through the center of the valley, with its vast broad river bottom covered with wild vegetation, pastures or cultivated fields. We cross several ditches, one laid in cement, with the water running in them as clear as that in the washbowl.

Once across the river bottom we are almost directly at Colton on the Southern Pacific Railroad. The first thing that attracts our attention is the beautiful plantation on the railroad reservation. Fine green lawns, fountains, beds of evergreens and flowers, the whole inclosed in pepper trees, gives the traveler immediately the impression that something beautiful in the way of gardening can be accomplished, where there is only a will and a taste. Such beautiful places everywhere in the South show that the people who came here, came not alone to make money, but also to enjoy life and to cultivate those pleasures and occupations which help to prolong and beautify the same.

From Colton up to San Bernardino the whole country is settled up and resembles the outskirts of a large city, where the business men have their suburban residences. The level and gradually sloping mesa is dotted over with little hills and knolls, just the place for a residence. Every such place has been taken advantage of, and fine residences with towers, balconies and airy awnings crown every little eminence, each one through its peculiar situation seemingly dominating the valley.

San Bernardino has been greatly benefited by the boom. The old and the new are there in strong contrast, the new decidedly predominating. Magnificent brick blocks grace the principal business streets, and the nearest streets crossing them, blocks that must have cost large sums of money, and which for design and substantial structure can nowhere be surpassed in any city of this size. The fine large hotels erected lately are kept up with style and even splendor. The large Stewart House is not inferior to the best town hotel that can be seen anywhere, and its interior arrangements, with a large covered court, are most admirable. My stay in San Bernardino was only too short; a long stroll around town and a little longer shake hands with the veteran journalist and horticulturist, L. M. Holt, took all the time I had to spare.

From San Bernardino to Redlands is but half an hour’s ride through the bottom lands of the Santa Ana river. We approach rapidly the upper end of the valley, where the elevated mesa spreads out all around like a perfect ampitheater, backed by the loftiest mountains in Southern California. The mesa is now in close view, and Redlands, Lugonia, Terracina, Crafton, all different points of the same settlement, lie in front of us at an elevation of about fifteen hundred feet above the sea, like a map or extensive panorama, where roads, orchards and houses are so clearly and distinctly seen that they can be observed at a glance. The mesa land here slopes about four hundred feet to the mile, and the different orchards or settlements lie apparently one above the other, all in full view. If I am asked for the place in this part of the country with the finest view, with the freshest air, with the purest water, and with the coolest breezes, and where business and the comforts of life can be combined, I will say, and say it again, Redlands. In all these points there is nothing here that surpasses it, and few are the places indeed that even can pretend to equal it. From whatever point we stand, be it at the lower end of the railroad depot, at any orchard or home in the center of the settlement, or at the upper end close to the rolling hills, from every point we see every other point, some below, some above us, all equally distinct. And this extensive and magnificent view, that requires no tedious and tiresome climbing to see, extends away down the valley for sixty miles, over slightly rolling hills, over level mesas with their dark-green orchards and vineyards, over the steeper hills, over the lofty Sierra Madre range in the northwest. If we turn to the right we are immediately met by the snowy peaks and the bare walls of the San Bernardino range, here and there cut by the caÑons and gorges of the tributaries of the Santa Ana river.

The business part of Redlands is as neat and tasty as any,—brick blocks and cement sidewalks, horse cars, and water under pressure.

No explanation is required to be made of the quality of the Redlands climate and soil. A trip over the settlement will reveal all to any one with open eyes. Orange orchards, young of course, but thrifty, on every side, alternating with Muscat vineyards, according to the taste of the owner; beautiful homes of the horticulturists, the stately mansions of the bank presidents and those that became wealthy quickly, and the grand view common to all,—these are some of the good things this settlement enjoys. The water for irrigation is all under pressure, either coming to the surface in open flues or in iron pipes. The orange orchards are being irrigated everywhere, in a way which should make a San Joaquin valley man stare. Iron pipes are laid all over the orchard, and at the beginning of every row of trees there is a faucet. These faucets are all opened at the same time, and a tiny stream of water issues forth and runs on each side of the young orange trees down to the other end of the check. It is left to run for several days at a time. At the other end of the check the water is not wasted, but runs into a little wooden spout at every row of trees and through the same into a cement ditch which carries the water to another place. The system of irrigation is simply perfect; if it were not so, the land could not be irrigated. With this system there is no waste, no weeds, no malaria, no hoeing nor other work of any kind. Irrigation is here as easy as the washing of your hands in a patent washstand: you open the faucet and let the water run. The general opinion by people not acquainted with the colony is that water here is very scarce; this is a mistake. There is water enough to irrigate all the land; most of it is now only running to waste to the sea; to be utilized it must only be stored. The Bear valley reservoir, when perfected, as it soon will be, will hold water enough to irrigate over twenty-six thousand acres of ground, which is about all the irrigable land tributary to Redlands. There are other reservoir sites in the mountains, and the possibilities of future irrigation can hardly be comprehended. Although young, only four years old, the upper San Bernardino colonies produce already considerable quantities of fruit. Six thousand acres are now under cultivation, eight hundred of which are in Muscat grapes, the balance mostly in oranges and other fruits. Last year they produced fifty carloads of grapes and forty carloads of raisins, and altogether about 149 carloads of fruit, dried or fresh. No better showing could be expected of any place, and there is no better advertisement of the resources of the country.

I have yet a thing to add, a thing to praise. Everywhere in the South magnificent drives are laid out, avenues are planted with shade trees, evergreens and palms, street cars take you everywhere, and the comforts of pedestrians and riders are always assured. The roads are all sprinkled, and the dust is an unknown quantity except in by-lanes and corners, where the sprinkler cannot reach. Riverside sprinkles the whole of her business streets, and her Magnolia avenue effectively and continually for about ten miles down the valley. Other places do the same, perhaps only not to as liberal an extent. In many places the tired pedestrian finds little wooden benches to rest on under a shady tree, close to a fountain of drinking water, all placed there by the kind society, W. C. T. U. Comparisons are not in place; but how many times I have wished such a thing had been met with in some other places I know of where the sun is just as hot, and where the dust is just as deep.

AN HOUR IN A PACKING-HOUSE.

The following sketch of a Fresno packing-house, where already cured raisins are bought and packed, may prove interesting to those of my readers who have not had time or opportunity to visit any similar establishment. The same kind of work is going on in each packing-house, whether it be large or small, except that the number of hands are varied. In the two or three largest packing-houses in Fresno, as many as four hundred hands are sometimes employed at one time when the work is pressing; as it slackens, less hands are used. These large city packing-houses are all situated close to the railroad; they buy the raisins already cured and dried from the colonists, who bring them in sweatboxes to town. The time of the greatest activity is from the last week in August to October 15th. The largest of these city packers are Messrs. Cook & Langley, who own packing-houses both in Riverside and Fresno; Schacht, Lemcke & Steiner, successors to George W. Meade, the oldest packing-house in Fresno, superintended by H. W. Shram; Chas. Leslie & Co., Griffin & Skelley, etc.

The pioneer packing company of Fresno, known as the Fresno Raisin & Fruit Packing Company, is doing at this time a large business. Every day five or six carloads of raisins are sent away, while a string of from twenty to thirty, two and four horse teams are waiting outside of the weighing shed to have their raisins weighed and received. These raisins come both from large and small vineyards from all over the country, but principally from the colonies, where they are the products of twenty-acre vineyards. Some of the best raisins in fact came from the smallest vineyards, where they had the best care, and where the owner has given the vineyard all his time. Mr. H. W. Shram, the superintendent of this large and old packing-house, has had years of experience in the packing business, and has followed the Fresno raisin business from its infancy. As soon as the raisin boxes are unloaded they are immediately weighed. It takes eight men to attend to this part of the business, one weighing and one clerk to keep accounts. The dried wine grapes, such as Zinfandel, Malagas, and even Sultanas, are immediately wheeled into the stemmer-house to be separated from the stems and cleaned. This stemmer is one of the largest in the State, and the only one of its kind as regards construction. It stems, cleans and assorts, in from three to four different grades, sixty tons of raisins a day. Nine men are working this machine, some feeding, others pushing wide but shallow boxes under the spouts, others again wheeling them away when full. The steam engine of ten horse-power and boiler are fired principally with separated stems, refuse raisins, and stones of peaches and apricots. The separated dried grapes are packed and shipped in eighty-pound sacks, and go in this way to the East, or even to Europe. Every day one or two carloads of these dried grapes are shipped. The Muscatel layers, however, go first to the sweating-room, before anything is done with them. This sweating-room is one hundred by fifty feet, and has the walls and floor filled around with one foot in thickness of sawdust, so as to prevent the outside air from entering. This sweating room is constantly filled with raisin boxes from floor to ceiling, and seldom contains less than forty tons of raisins at one time. It takes from ten to thirty days to equalize the moisture in the raisins as well as to properly soften the stems so that the grapes will not fall off. This is of the utmost importance. If it is not done the stems will break and the berries fall off, and instead of a first-class layer raisin we would only get a first-class loose.

After having sweated for several weeks the raisins are brought out to be assorted. We see several rows of oblong tables, each one with a border around like a deep and large tray, and with a hole at each end in which the loose raisins are pushed. It takes eighteen of these tables to receive the grapes to be assorted, and as it also takes six girls at each table, it is evident the work is one of great importance. Only girls are used, as boys and men could not as properly do the work. It takes a girl’s nimble fingers to handle the raisins, so that none break. They are also more patient, and are, in every way, suited for the work. As the raisins are being assorted, the different grades are clipped from the same bunches, and placed in different trays. Thus one and the same bunch may contain four different grades of raisins. Each one is separated at these tables, to make different brands of raisins. The trays, with five pounds of raisins each as they leave the graders, are placed in large piles on the floor, and are from there taken away at leisure, first to be packed and afterwards to the press. This is a department of its own. It takes great experience to press the raisins just so much, that they will look well, but not so much as to burst. A broken raisin will sugar and spoil, and would cause complaint and dissatisfaction. The public is constantly being educated as to what fine raisins are, and now wants only the best. Each tray is pressed, and it takes four trays to make up a box of twenty pounds. A tray is placed over the box, the sliding bottom is pulled out, and the whole cake of raisins with paper and all drop in the box below.

After the raisins are assorted they have to be packed. Twenty girls are occupied with this, the most pleasant, but also the most skillful, work in the packing-house. No bad raisins go in here, and if any there should be, they are separated and placed with a lower grade, as even one or two raisins would spoil an otherwise good box. This requires a great deal of care and attention, but the girls are being educated, and the same ones are re-engaged from year to year. Fresno is getting an army of girls educated for the business, and we find much less trouble now to get the raisins well packed than a few years ago, when everything was comparatively new. Now there is hardly a girl in any of the colonies who does not know something about raisin-packing, and who is able to make good wages during packing time. Several cents a tray are paid for packing, and many girls earn two dollars a day, while none earn less than one dollar a day. The first quality raisins are packed under the Lion Brand, while the second quality goes by the name of the Golden Gate. Both brands are equally popular and are readily sold. The loose raisins are as important as the bunches and layers. The American housewife has learned that she gets more for her money if she buys loose raisins than if she buys layers, which always contain a large percentage of stems. Loose raisins are therefore now very popular. The loose raisins have all been sweated, and the best of them have come from large, fine bunches, from which they have simply dropped off, and magnificent they look indeed as they are separated and graded into several grades, the largest of course to make the very choicest brands. The process of packing is quite different from that of packing layers. In loose, the boxes are simply filled with fifteen pounds of loose raisins; then a tray containing five pounds, and which has been faced, is placed on top, this making up twenty-pound boxes.

The facing is a most important and interesting work. It takes from forty to fifty girls to do it, and only expert hands are allowed at the facing tables. The facing consists in placing large, fine and flatted raisins in layers on top of the box, as an advertisement that the contents underneath are equally carefully assorted and choice. A careful and skillful facer can face forty boxes a day, while from twenty to thirty boxes is a low average. Mr. Shram buys raisins and dried grapes from every one who has any that are really choice. For Feherzagos three to three and one-half cents are paid, for Malagas four cents, and for Muscatels three and one-half to five cents, according to quality. All the work in the packing-house is done by piece work, and from two to five cents are paid for different qualities of the work, such as assorting, picking over, picking and facing. Four hundred girls and boys are daily employed. The present raisin pack, Mr. Shram affirms, is the best of any he has ever handled. They are shipped to every large town in the East, and are constantly increasing in demand. Besides raisins, Mr. Shram handles peaches, figs, apricots, and in fact any dried fruit we have. Tons and tons of Adriatic figs are brought from the colonies every day at six cents per pound, an enormous price when we consider the yield of a fig tree. But, says Mr. Shram, they are in demand, and as long as we can sell them again when packed and sweated to advantage we can afford to pay a good price.

When sufficient boxes are packed, they are loaded in cars and made up into trains exclusively loaded with raisins. The various packing-houses combine to do this. Generally during the packing season two such train-loads are sent away every week, each one consisting of from ten to fifteen cars of raisins, each car containing one thousand boxes. Five hundred and thirty such cars were shipped from Fresno last year (1889). Some of the packers packed one hundred thousand boxes each.