dale Acres," and we now came to the little town itself, a tiny
settlement with flamboyant signs advertising its high hopes. We read,
"Keep your eye on Palmdale, 10,000 people in 1925." Close to the sign
was the irrigation ditch with a thick stream of water rushing through.
We realized that all the hopes of Palmdale and all the possibilities of
future population were centered in that stream, which was to carry life
and fertility to the great dusty plains before us.

We had taken luncheon at Acton, a sordid little place with an extremely
unattractive wooden hotel, poor and bare. The luncheon, cooked and
served by a hard working landlady, had been better than appearances
promised. We had had hot beefsteak, a good boiled potato, some crisp
lettuce, and fair tea. Western people are addicted to green tea, a great
affliction to one accustomed to black tea. Western hotel keepers would
do well to use black tea for their tourists, as the use of green tea is,
so far as I know, almost unknown in the East.

Our road was rising now and we were approaching Neenach. We were driving
along the foothills on the high side of another great valley. As we came
near Neenach we passed an orchard to our right, the trees loaded with
beautiful, velvety green almonds. To the left was another orchard,
filled with neglected, dying almond trees. We had not known whether we
would find at Neenach a little town or a corner grocery store. It turned
out to be simply a post office in the home of a young settler who with
his wife was just making his start at ranching. He was a delightful
young fellow with shining white teeth, clear eyes, and an enthusiasm
that was pleasant to see. A big St. Bernard dog protected his wife, who
looked very picturesque in her riding costume. Although the ranchman had
been brought up in a city, he had come out to these foothills, bought
one hundred and sixty acres at $17.50 an acre, driven his well forty
feet, got his water, and planted his cottonwood trees for his first
shade. He was soon to plant his orchard and start his garden. He told us
that he would have plenty of water, as the mountains on whose
foot-slopes the farm lay were nine miles deep and fifteen miles long. I
asked him about the orchards which we had just passed, so fruitful on
the right, so sad and neglected on the left. He said that the almond
orchards on the left had been planted years ago by a little colony of
people who had three bad years following their pla