We were very tired after the extremely rough driving in the foothills, and slept heavily. Snelling lies in a valley where there is evidently plenty of warmth and water. The fig trees are wonderfully luxuriant. We passed some beautiful grain ranches the next morning and so came to Stockton, where at the Hotel Stockton we saw the red, white, and blue sign that was to guide us across the continent. We were at last on the Lincoln Highway, the old road with the new name which runs from ocean to ocean and which is destined to be one of the famous highways of the world. The Stockton Inn is a beautiful modern hostel, European in plan, with every convenience, not to say luxury. One should go up on its roof garden for an afternoon cup of tea just for the pleasure of looking down on the San Joaquin River, whose headwaters run up into the town. Boats lie all along the piers, and it looks very like a bit of Holland. I could have easily believed that I was looking down on an Amsterdam canal from the roof garden of the Stockton Hotel. All through California, but more particularly between Monterey and Los Angeles and along the coast, we had seen workmen tramping from place to place, sometimes alone, usually in bands of six or seven. They carried their blankets rolled on their backs, and many of them were clear-eyed, respectable looking men. We saw one such man in Stockton on his way to take the river boat. He had his blanket on his back, and he wore a somewhat battered straw hat. His trousers were ragged, and he looked as if he had tramped many a weary mile. He was tall and bony, with a sandy beard. I took him to be a Scot. I was so anxious to help the poor fellow out that I urged T. to speak to him and offer him a suit of clothes. To our surprise the man refused them in a very free and easy, genial way. "O, nay, thank you," he said, "I'm doin' all right." [Illustration: 1. Roof Garden, Stockton Hotel. 2. Head of San Joaquin River, Stockton.]