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.”

“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 Aladdin’s wand that unlocks all its treasures