teeming with colored fruits, as if it were transparent, and learns to
bring them to the surface. What he wills he can raise by true
enchantment. With slips and rootlets, his magic wands, they appear at
his bidding. These, and the seeds he plants, are his prayers, and by
them brought into right relations with God, he works grander miracles
every day than ever were written.

The Pasadena Colony, located on the southwest corner of the well-known
San Pasqual Rancho, is scarce three years old, but it is growing
rapidly, like a pet tree, and already forms one of the best
contributions to culture yet accomplished in the county. It now
numbers about sixty families, mostly drawn from the better class of
vagabond pioneers, who, during their rolling-stone days have managed
to gather sufficient gold moss to purchase from ten to forty acres of
land. They are perfectly hilarious in their newly found life, work
like ants in a sunny noonday, and, looking far into the future,
hopefully count their orange chicks ten years or more before they are
hatched; supporting themselves in the meantime on the produce of a few
acres of alfalfa, together with garden vegetables and the
quick-growing fruits, such as figs, grapes, apples, etc., the whole
reinforced by the remaining dollars of their land purchase money.
There is nothing more remarkable in the character of the colony than
the literary and scientific taste displayed. The conversation of most
I have met here is seasoned with a smack of mental ozone, Attic salt,
which struck me as being rare among the tillers of California soil.
People of taste and money in search of a home would do well to
prospect the resources of this aristocratic little colony.

If we look now at these southern valleys in general, it will appear at
once that with all their advantages they lie beyond the reach of poor