for a picnic, but we have many miles before us and
must go on. In a few more miles we reach a little town known as
"Alpine." In the distance looms the Viejas, and if any of the party wish
to travel over a grade, now is the opportunity. The top of the grade
brings us to a lovely view. Eastward is an unbroken chain of
mountain-peaks, from whose summits may be seen the broad Pacific on one
side and the Colorado Desert on the other.

One of the favorite drives is into the Monte. This is a large park or
tract of a thousand acres. On each side the hills rise, and in front El
Cajon shows new beauties with every step of the way. Great live-oaks
with enormous trunks, ancient sycamores, elders, and willows make in
some spots a dense shade. On the edge of the hillsides the Flume may be
seen, which furnishes many ranches as well as the city of San Diego with
the purest mountain water. Underneath the trees and up on the rocks the
lover of flowers and ferns will scramble. There are the dainty
forget-me-nots, tiny flowers of starry white, flowers of pale orange
with centres of deep maroon, the wild galliardia, and the wild peony
with its variegated leaves. Many other delicate blossoms which we cannot
stop to describe are there too. And the ferns! All kinds may be found
by the initiated, and many are close at hand. The fern lined with gold
or with silver, the running ferns, the ferns of lace-like fineness, the
ferns as soft as velvet, all growing in the greatest profusion. And each
day of the week a different drive and new delights.

There is the valley of El Cajon ("the box"), which should be visited in
grape-picking time. The great Boston ranch alone employs three hundred
and twenty-five pickers. Men, women, children, all busy, and the grapes
when just turned are sweet, spicy, and delicious, making the air
fragrant. This valley is dotted with handsome villas and prosperous
ranches. The range of mountains which looms up before us from the
veranda of the hotel is not yet dignified by a name, yet it is more
imposing than the White Mountains, and in the distance we see old
Cuyamaca, nearly seven thousand feet high. But we must take the next
train for San Diego, or this chapter will be a volume in itself. And I
have not even alluded to the "Great Back Country."

The founder of San Diego is still living, still hopeful, still young at
heart. "Father" Horton, the typical pioneer, deserves more honors than
he has yet received. Coming from