CHAPTER XV 
HOW MAY I DO IT, TOO;—GRAFTING 
HE who is fortunate enough to stand some 
midsummer day on the summit of the 
Macayamas, an inner spur of the great Coast 
range, hard by the Pacific and skirting the 
beautiful Sonoma valley, will look out upon a 
scene of surpassing interest. In the foreground 
lies the fertile valley, with the fruit of its 
hundreds of ranches ripening in the mellow 
sunshine, pears and peaches, apricots and 
apples, plums and prunes and cherries, with 
here and there great vineyards heavy with 
grapes, the whole broken in upon by wide 
green fields of hops and broader stretches of 
yellow wheat, with the reapers already at their 
work. Through the valley flows the winding 
Russian river, emptying at last through a pass 
in the mountains into the Pacific at the point 
where the Russians came down in the early 
days and sought to fix their flag upon Spanish 
soil ; while far through the distance, across the 
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