STOCKTON. 223 



San Francisco on his return from England, 

 to join him. 



Nothing material occurs in my journal until 

 March 23rd. I am at the Webber House in 

 Stockton, a very pretty city, built on what the 

 Americans call a slew, or, in other words, a 

 muddy arm of the San Joaquin river. The 

 country round is perfectly flat, but fertile be- 

 yond description. To obtain water the inhabit- 

 ants have only to bore an augur-hole about nine 

 feet in depth, when it bubbles up like a fountain. 

 In nearly every garden is a tiny windmill, em- 

 ployed to irrigate the peach-orchards and gene- 

 ral crops. Hear of 700 mules that have just 

 arrived from Salt Lake city. 



March 24#A. Drive out in a buggy to the 

 mule ranch. The country very bare of timber, 

 but thickly covered with grass. Every hillock, 

 I observe, is burrowed like a rabbit-warren by 

 the Californian ground-squirrel (Spermophilus 

 Beechyii}. I am told that it is next to impossible 

 to drive out or exterminate these most destruc- 

 tive pests ; entire fields of young wheat are cleared 

 off by them, as if mowed down ; gardens are in- 

 vaded, and a year's labour and gain destroyed in 

 a single day. Trapping, shooting, and strych- 

 nine have failed to accomplish the work of ex- 

 tinction. Farmers often flood entire districts, 



