e
fields encroach more and more upon the hills, their rich greenness
running quite far up on the hill slopes. The line of demarcation between
the growing grain and the rough pasture slopes is as clean as if drawn
by a pencil. It is here in Salinas Valley that we first notice the
park-like appearance of many green stretches of field with live oaks
growing here and there. It would almost seem that the oaks had been
planted with a view to park effects, instead of being part of the
original forest which had been cut down to make way for the grain
fields. We pass through the little town of Soledad (Solitude) near which
are the poor ruins of the Mission of our Lady of Soledad. We judge that
Soledad must have a cosmopolitan population when we read such names as
Sneible, Tavernetti, and Espinosa on the town's signs. Here and there
we see where the Salinas River has eaten great pieces out of its banks,
during the spring freshets. We had seen the same thing in Carmel Valley,
where a man lost a large piece of his orchard by its falling bodily into
the raging Carmel river. The streams of California are not like the
streams of New England, clear and deep with winey brown depths. They are
shallow streams with earth banks, but in the time of the spring rains
they become wild torrents. Late in the afternoon we pass King City on
the opposite bank of the river, glorified by the afternoon sunshine. It
looks like a picture town, its buildings taking on castle-like
proportions from a distance. We then come over the Jolon Grade, and
descend through a little wooded valley that has a particular charm. I do
not know its name, but it cast a certain spell that lingers with me. It
is a narrow valley with stretches of thick green grass under forest
trees, and has a quality of seclusion that I have not felt in the wide
acres of grain in the great Salinas Valley. It is as if the forest had
been only partly cut away and the advance of the grazier and the grain
grower were but partly accomplished.

We come into Jolon, a country crossroads hamlet, past "Dutton's," a most
comfortable and homelike country hotel, if one may judge by appearances.
I am sorry not to stop for the night. I am always attracted to these
country inns when they have hospitable porches and a general look of
homely comfort. I should be glad, too, to take the six mile detour from
the main road in order to see the ruins of the San Antonio Mission. But
we have been told that the Mission