“Why did you make this splendid promenade?” I asked in mingled curiosity and admiration.

“It is one of our ways of booming things,” was the reply; “out of the hundreds of people who come to see it, some stay, build houses, and go into business.  Without it they might never have come at all.”

“Was not the cost of laying it out enormous?” I inquired.

“Not so great as you would naturally suppose,” was the answer, “for after this country has once been irrigated, whatever is planted on watered land will grow like interest, day and night, summer and winter.”

[Illustration:  Magnolia avenue, Riverside.]

[Illustration:  A Magnolia blossom.]

Riverside’s fortunes were made in orange culture, and there was a time when every one who planted orange trees was prosperous; but now, under inevitable competition, this enterprise is rivaled in value by other large industries, particularly the cultivation of lemons and olives.  Thousands of acres of olive orchards are now flourishing in Southern California, and are considered a sure and profitable investment.

Another celebrated “orange city” is Redlands, where the visitor ceases to wonder at nature, and devotes himself to marveling at man.  How can he do otherwise when, in a place that was a wilderness ten years ago, he drives for twenty miles over well-curbed roads, sixty feet wide and as hard as asphalt, or strolls through handsome streets adorned with palms and orange trees, and frequently embellished with residences worthy of Newport?  No doubt it is a surprise to many tourists to find such elegant homes in these cities which were born but yesterday; for Americans in the East, though far from conservative themselves, do not, as a rule, appreciate the wonderful growth of these towns which but a few years since had no existence.  Occasionally some neighbor goes out to the Pacific coast, and tells his friends on his return what he has seen; but it makes little impression until they go themselves.  They think he is exaggerating.

“Would you like to see a converted mountain?” inquired my guide.

“What do you mean?” I asked incredulously.

“You will see,” he replied, “and in ten minutes we shall be there.”

[Illustration:  Part of the “Converted mountain,” Redlands.]

Accordingly, up we drove over magnificent, finely graded roads, till we arrived at what appeared to be a gentleman’s private park.  The park, however, seemed to have no limit, and we rode on through a bewildering extent of cemented stone walls, umbrageous trees, luxuriant flowers, trailing vines, and waving palms.  At last we reached the summit, and what a view unrolled itself before us!  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