"All grown in eight years," he answered.

"Still," I again protested, "here are stone walls, and curbed and
graded roads."

"All made in eight years," he reiterated.

"But, in addition to this mountain, how about the twenty miles of
orange groves surrounding it, the thirty thousand dollar public
library of Redlands, and its miles of asphalt streets?"

"All in eight years," he said again, as if, like Poe's raven, he had
been taught one refrain.

[Illustration: THE SIERRA MADRE AND THE SAN GABRIEL VALLEY.]

[Illustration: A FEW "UNCONVERTED MOUNTAINS," NEAR REDLANDS.]

In fact, it should be said that this entire mountain was purchased by
two wealthy brothers who now come every winter from the East to this
incomparable hill, the whole of which has been, as if by magic,
metamorphosed into an estate, where visitors are allowed to find
instruction and delight upon its lofty terraces of forest and of
flowers. Is it strange, then, that such sudden transformations of
sterile plains and mountains into bits of paradise make tourists in
Southern California wildly enthusiastic? They actually see fulfilled
before their eyes the prophecy of Isaiah, "The desert shall rejoice,
and blossom as the rose." The explanation is, however, simple. The
land is really rich. The ingredients are already here. Instead of
being worthless, as was once supposed, this is a precious soil. The