The street-car lines of Fresno do not run very far out in the country, and to see the latter we must procure a team. The colonies or settlements of small farms immediately join the town limits; we are thus with one step out in the country. On either side we see continuous rows of vineyards,--the leaves green and brilliant, the vines planted in squares and pruned low, with the branches trailing on the ground. To begin with, the houses stand closely, almost as in a village. As we get farther out there is a house on every twenty-acre farm, or every one-eighth of a mile. The cottages are neat and tasty, surrounded by shade trees, while rose-trees and shrubbery adorn the yard, and climbers shelter the verandas from the sun. At every step, almost, we pass teams going in various directions,--teams loaded with raisin boxes, teams with raisin trays, teams crowded with raisin pickers hurrying out to the vineyards, teams driven by raisin-growers or colonists generally, who rush to and from town to transact business connected with their one great industry. Everywhere is bustle and life; every one is in a hurry, as the grape-picking has begun, and the weather is favorable; no one has any time to lose. Some of the avenues are lined with elm-trees, others with fig-trees, with their luscious, drooping fruit, others again are bordered with evergreen and towering gums, with weeping branches and silvery bark. Every acre is carefully cultivated; there is room for only a few weeds. As far as we drive the same scene is everywhere, a scene like that in the outskirts of a populous city, where villas and pleasure grounds alternate with the cultivated acres, here those of the raisin-grower, and where every foot of ground is guarded with zealous care and made to produce to its utmost capacity. It is a pretty sight, a sight of thrift and intelligence, of enterprise and of success, of wealth and of refinement, found nowhere else outside of the fruit-growing and raisin-producing districts of California.