A Californian vineyard, one of man’s outposts in the wilderness, has features of its own.  There is nothing here to remind you of the Rhine or Rhone, of the low cote d’or, or the infamous and scabby deserts of Champagne; but all is green, solitary, covert.  We visited two of them, Mr. Schram’s and Mr. M’Eckron’s, sharing the same glen.

Some way down the valley below Calistoga, we turned sharply to the south and plunged into the thick of the wood.  A rude trail rapidly mounting; a little stream tinkling by on the one hand, big enough perhaps after the rains, but already yielding up its life; overhead and on all sides a bower of green and tangled thicket, still fragrant and still flower-bespangled by the early season, where thimble-berry played the part of our English hawthorn, and the buck-eyes were putting forth their twisted horns of blossom:  through all this, we struggled toughly upwards, canted to and fro by the roughness of the trail, and continually switched across the face by sprays of leaf or blossom.  The last is no great inconvenience at home; but here in California it is a matter of some moment.  For in all woods and by every wayside there prospers an abominable shrub or weed, called poison-oak, whose very neighbourhood is venomous to some, and whose actual touch is avoided by the most impervious.

The two houses, with their vineyards, stood each in a green niche of its own in this steep and narrow forest dell.  Though they were so near, there was already a good difference in level; and Mr. M’Eckron’s head must be a long way under the feet of Mr. Schram.  No more had been cleared than was necessary for cultivation; close around each oasis ran the tangled wood; the glen enfolds them; there they lie basking in sun and silence, concealed from all but the clouds and the mountain birds.

Mr. M’Eckron’s is a bachelor establishment; a little bit of a wooden house, a small cellar hard by in the hillside, and a patch of vines planted and tended single-handed by himself.  He had but recently began; his vines were young, his business young also; but I thought he had the look of the man who succeeds.  He hailed from Greenock:  he remembered his father putting him inside Mons Meg, and that touched me home; and we exchanged a word or two of Scotch, which pleased me more than you would fancy.

Mr. Schram’s, on the other hand, is the oldest vineyard in the valley, eighteen years old, I think; yet he began a penniless barber, and even after he had broken ground up here with his black malvoisies, continued for long to tramp the valley with his razor.  Now, his place is the picture of prosperity:  stuffed birds in the verandah, cellars far dug into the hillside, and resting on pillars like a bandit’s cave:- all trimness, varnish, flowers, and sunshine, among the tangled wildwood.  Stout, smiling Mrs. Schram, who has been to Europe and apparently all about the States for pleasure, entertained Fanny in