STOCKTON. 993 
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 24th.—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 
Beechyui). Jam 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, 
