HOW MAY I DO IT, TOO;—GRAFTING 
green and yellow valley, rise the white peaks 
of the high Sierras two hundred miles away, 
their summits forever clothed in snow, keeping 
watch above their lower mountain wards and 
over the fair valley below. Just across the 
valley over the roof-tops of Santa Rosa you 
may see the low hills of Sebastopol ;— there 
lie the acres which have given scope for the 
great work of Mr. Burbank. Here is the 
culmination of the tests, the great proving 
grounds where the final standard is set up, 
alongside of which the flower or fruit must 
measure itself or be doomed to death. 
On these grounds, now some fifteen acres in 
extent, the grafting of trees and the raising of 
seedlings goes on from year to year, as well 
as very much extensive work in pollenating 
and selection. And the scale on which these 
things are carried forward is larger than any 
ever before known in the history of the world. 
A sunny, beautiful spot it is, far from city 
sounds and strifes, lying softly asleep in the 
golden sunshine with the fair hills beyond, 
purple or crimson or yellow or white as the 
summer flowers come on in never-ending 
procession. Asleep it is, and yet awake, 
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