roots of the trees."

[Illustration: A RAISIN RANCH.]

Dealers in California wines declare that people ought to use them in
preference to the imported vintage of Europe, and the warehouses they
have built prove the sincerity of their conviction. One storehouse in
the San Gabriel Valley is as large as the City Hall of New York, and
contains wooden receptacles for wine rivaling in size the great tun
of Heidelberg. We walked between its endless rows of hogsheads,
filled with wine; and, finally, in the sample-room were invited to
try in turn the claret, burgundy, sherry, port, and brandy.

[Illustration: AN ORANGE GROVE, PASADENA.]

[Illustration: A CALIFORNIA VINEYARD.]

"How much wine do you make?" I asked the gentleman in charge.

"In one year," was the reply, "we made a million gallons."

I thought of the Los Angeles River which I had crossed that morning,
and of its sandy bed one hundred feet in width, with a current in
the centre hardly larger than the stream from a hose-pipe, and
remarked, "Surely, in some portions of this land there is more wine
than water." "Where do you sell it?" I presently inquired.

"Everywhere," was the answer, "even in France; and what goes over
there you subsequently buy, at double the price, for real French
wine."