desert, the old mission of San Gabriel, nestled at the base of the
western foot-hills, seemed the very garden-spot of the world. Here were
groves of oranges, lemons, limes, pomegranates, and olives. Here were
roses and jasmines. Here were heliotrope and fuchsias, grown to be
trees, and a bewildering profusion of climbing vines and flowering
shrubs, of which they knew not the names.

But they recognized the oranges, though none of them had ever seen one
growing before; and, with a shout of joy, the entire party rushed into
the grove, where the trees were laden at once with the luscious fruit
and perfumed blossoms. There was no pause to discuss the proper method
of peeling an orange in this case, for they did not stop to peel them at
all. They just ate them, skin and all, like so many apples. It was such
a treat as they had never enjoyed before, and they made the most of it.

Not long after leaving San Gabriel, as they were making a night march
towards Los Angeles, Glen suddenly became aware of a strange humming
sound above his head; and, looking up, saw a telegraph wire. With a glad
shout he announced its presence. It was the most civilized thing they
had seen since leaving Kansas.

At Los Angeles they could not make up their minds to endure the close,
dark rooms of the Fonda, and so camped out for the night in the
government corral beside their wagon.

The following day they made their last march over twenty miles of level
prairie, dotted with flocks and herds, to San Pedro, on the coast. It
was late in the afternoon, and the sun was setting, when, from a slight
eminence, they caught their first glimpse of the gold-tinted Pacific
waters. For a moment they gazed in silence, with hearts too full for
words. Then everybody shook hands with the one nearest to him, and more
than one tear of joyful emotion trickled down the bronzed and
weather-beaten cheeks of the explorers. As for Glen Eddy, he never
expects to be so thrilled again as he was by the sight of that mighty
ocean gleaming in the red light of the setting sun, and marking the end
of the most notable journey of his life.

That night they made their last camp, and gathered about their final
camp-fire. Glen and "Billy" Brackett had shared their blankets ever
since leaving the Rio Grande, and had hardly slept, even beneath a
canvas roof, in all those months. Now, as they lay together for the last
time, on their bed of grassy turf, which is of all beds the one that