122 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



My brother and I sold our cattle, and began to 

 sow wheat in our valleys and on our hills. Some 

 of the neighbours planted out large orchards and 

 vineyards ; others opened stores. Churches and 

 school-houses were built. Everywhere, even in the 

 brush hills, was heard the buzz of the big threshing 

 machines, the skirl of the circular saws, the clang 

 of the hammer on the anvil ; all the sounds, in fine, 

 of what is called Prosperity. 



The tiny hamlet that lay upon the outskirts of 

 our ranch became a bustling village. My brother 

 and I rubbed our eyes, just as Eip Van Winkle 

 rubbed his when he returned to the town that he 

 had known as Sleepy Hollow. But if the dust was 

 still in our eyes, we were soon sensible that those 

 around us were wide awake. The change from past 

 to present was as the contrast between Jacob and 

 Esau. The vaquero, rough, honest, brave, and 

 chivalrous, had galloped away to other pastures ; 

 in his place stood the farmer, the smooth-talker, 

 the man of guile, cunning, and crafty. Gone too 

 were the long days in the saddle, gone with the 

 quail and the wild ducks, and the deer and the 

 antelope. Our ploughshares were bright, but our 

 guns rusted in their cases. 



On a wheat ranch, the work begins before cock- 

 crow, and it ends when you fling yourself, spent 

 and aching, upon your bed. For in a new country 

 leisure is seldom found on a farm. There is so 

 much that clamours for adjustment and readjust- 

 ment : trees must be felled and split up into posts ; 

 post-holes must be dug (two feet deep) ; wire must be 

 stretched ; stumps must be taken out ; brush must 



