groves with their loads of fruit, rapidly assuming golden hues; through
miles and miles of vineyards, now 'reft of all leaves, vineyards in
which the pruners were already busily at work; past acres and acres of
ground being prepared for grain; through wooded canyons and
pine-screened vales; ascending from almost sea level to upwards of 3000
feet--a party of us went to Warner's Ranch after the famous canvasback
ducks.

We left my home at 7:30 o'clock a. m., some of us in my machine, and two
of the party in a runabout. Filled with the ambition of youth, the
driver of the latter car reached Mr. William Newport's place in the
Perris Valley, a run of seventy-six miles, in two hours and twenty
minutes. We jogged along, reaching Newport's in three hours, and found
the exultant, speed-crazed fiend waiting for us. He was loud in the
praise of his speedy run. Of all of this take note a little later in the
story.

We lunched with Mr. Newport, and then took him with us. What a day it
was! A radiant, dry, winter day! The whole earth was flooded with
sunshine. Not a cloud was in the sky. The air was full of snap and
electric energy. The atmosphere absolutely clear. We wound in and out of
the canyons, over dry and running streams, always ascending, climbing
the eastern shoulder of Mt. Palomar, not to the top, but to a pass by
which the ranch is reached.

Before 4 o'clock we were on Warner's Ranch. This property could well be
described as the "Pamir" of Southern California. True, its elevation is
but slight compared with the 16,000 feet of that great Asiatic country,
bearing the name of "Pamir," where roams in all his freedom the true
"Ovis Poli" or "Big Horn."