Directly opposite, the awful wall of the Sierra swept up to meet our
vision in all its majesty of granite glory, like an immense,
white-crested wave, one hundred miles in length, which had by some
mysterious force been instantaneously curbed and petrified, just as
it was about to break and overwhelm the valley with destruction.
Beneath it, for seventy miles in exquisitely blended hues, stretched
the wonderful San Gabriel intervale, ideal in its tranquil
loveliness. Oh, the splendor, opulence, and sweetness of its
countless flowers, whose scarlet, gold, and crimson glowed and melted
into the richest sheen of velvet, and rendered miles of pure air
redolent with perfume, as grapes impart their flavor to good wine!

In gazing on this valley from a distance one would fain believe it to
be in reality, as in appearance, an idyllic garden of Arcadian
innocence and happiness, and, forgetting the disillusions of maturer
years, dream that all human hearts are as transparent as its
atmosphere, and that all life is no less sweet and pure.

[Illustration: A DRIVEWAY IN REDLANDS.]

But, presently, I asked again, "What do you mean by a _converted_
mountain?"

"Eight years ago," was the reply, "this elevation on which we stand
was a heap of yellow sand, like many unconverted mountains that we
see about us; now it has been transformed into a dozen miles of
finished roads and extensive gardens enclosing two fine residences."

"Pardon me," I exclaimed, "here are trees thirty feet high."