Local Color . 281 



soft-eyed, proudly named clwlo, on so hot a day, 

 as lie sat under the big vine at San Gabriel ey- 

 ing his Zinfandel against the sun. It was enough 

 that the vintage was on, and he was camping in 

 the Tierra Alta vineyard in a pair of tents with 

 his family, a kinsman or two, and some friends 

 one from Dos Palmas, another from Ojo Cali- 

 ente, two from Ensenada, and a few more from 

 near Guadalajara, who slept under the orange 

 trees but boarded with the family. 



Sefior Gonzales is spending Sunday with his 

 family at the mission of San Gabriel. The men 

 are in the long white-washed adobe barroom tak- 

 ing their wine and playing cards. The baby and 

 the young children are having a siesta in the 

 ranch wagon, while the women have gone to 

 mass in the old mission where Salvadea preached 

 to the Indians nearly a century ago. Later in 

 the day they sit on the steps and watch the 

 gringos paying to see the old church; then they 

 go to the funeral and weep when the grief- 

 stricken woman screams and rends herself, after 

 the Mexican fashion. 



Seiior Gonzales takes his wine in several 

 places; now beneath the big vine, now in the 

 plastered saloon, or in a long adobe ; and as they 

 ride back to the tent in the vineyard at Tierra 

 Alta no man is happier than he. He has no 

 rubies, true, but what ruby is richer than the 

 Zinfandel, and did he not pick the grape of that 



