We have already remarked that the country between the dam and the city of Merced is a magnificent and level body of land, all eminently suited for irrigation. From the water tower in the reservoir, we overlook all this land, now in its spring dress a very beautiful sight indeed. The vast sheet of water, like a placid lake, in which the Sierra Nevada reflects its snowy peaks, the prairie extending far and wide, divided between luxuriant grainfields and unbroken lands now covered with their spring carpet of flowers in the colors of the rainbow,—yellow, white, blue, violet, red and shades of each, and dotted over with the new settlers’ homes, freshly built and freshly painted,—what more lovely view could we wish, a sight of beauty and of plenty. As we drive back to town, we are more than at first impressed with the lay of the land. The surface is level and without hills or knolls, but is cut through by many natural channels or creeks from fifteen to twenty feet deep, insuring a natural drainage, invaluable in a country where irrigation is required.
The soil in this part of Merced county appears to be made up entirely of alluvial deposits from the various creeks which in winter irrigate the plains with their natural overflow. The largest of these creeks is Bear creek, its deep channel resembling rather an irrigation ditch constructed on the latest engineering principles than a natural stream. Its banks are even and slanting, while its bed is deep below the surface.
But our time to stay was short. We have left Merced and many smaller towns behind us, crossed many more dry streams, and passed the large vineyards at Minturn, where sherry and port of excellent quality are made. We have again crossed the main channel of the upper San Joaquin, not far from where it emerges from the Sierra Nevada, its silvery waters winding their way over the thirsty plains between steep and barren banks. We have crossed a few irrigating ditches full to overflowing with water, and see a few orchards and vineyards with their bright green scattered about on the yellow plains. There is suddenly a general stir in the cars, hats and bundles are taken down from the racks, most of the passengers prepare to move, the locomotive whistles, houses and trees are seen on both sides through the car windows, the train comes to a standstill, there is a hum of voices, a waiting crowd swarms around the cars, a throng of people pushes in, and another throng pushes out. We are among the latter, as we are now in Fresno, the largest raisin center on the continent.
Fresno, as seen from the railroad station, is not as inviting as it might be, and the thousands of travelers who pass by on the cars, headed farther south, can judge but little of the town and the district behind it. The country is so level, that the only way to get a good view of the country is to ascend some elevated building, the courthouse being the highest, and through its location the best suited building for the purpose. The early forenoon, before the noonday sun has acquired its full power, is the best time for this. Once up there, the view is decidedly magnificent, and more extensive than we had ever expected while below. Under us lies a lovely park of trees,—umbrella, elm, locust and fan palms, covering about four blocks. From it stretch the regular streets in all directions, lined by cottages as well as with costly dwelling-houses, shaded with stately trees of various kinds. The business portion of the town presents itself particularly well,—large and costly hotels, with comforts that the tired travelers enjoy so much, imposing bank blocks of brick and stone, with towers and ornamental roofs, solid structures with continuous lines of stores, etc., mark this part of town. For a mile in every direction the town stretches out, the center thickly built, the outskirts with sparsely scattered houses. Adjoining these the country begins,—vineyards as far as we can trace, groups of houses shaded by trees in different tints of green, while broken rows of endless poplars traverse the verdant plains and lose themselves in the distant horizon. The Sierra Nevada, with their snowclad summits, and the Coast Range in the west, cloudy and less distinct, form the frame for two sides of this attractive picture, while to the north and the south the open horizon, where sky and plains meet, limits the extensive view.
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.
The raisin harvest has just begun; the vineyards are full of workers, grape-pickers are stooping by every vine, and are arranging the grapes on small square or oblong trays, large enough to be easily handled; teams with trucks are passing between the vines distributing the trays or piling them up in small, square stacks at every row. Some trays with their amber grapes lie flat on the ground in long continuous rows between the vines, others again are slightly raised so as to catch as much of the sun as possible. In some vineyards the laborers are turning the partially cured and dried raisins by placing one tray on top of another, and then turning them quickly over. In other places, again, the trays with the raisins already cured are stacked in low piles, so as to exclude the sun and air, and at other stacks a couple of men at each are busy assorting the grapes, and placing the various grades in different sweatboxes, large enough to hold one hundred pounds each. In every vineyard, large and small, we find the hands at work, and every one able and willing to do a day’s work is engaged to harvest the large crop. The most of the pickers are Chinese, at least in the larger vineyards, while in the smaller vineyards, where large gangs of men are not absolutely necessary, white men and boys are generally employed. The fame of the raisin section and the harvest has spread far and wide, and at picking time laborers gather from all parts of the State to take part in the work, and find remunerative wages at from $1.25 to $1.50 per day. The country now swarms with pickers of all nationalities,—Germans, Armenians, Chinese, Americans, Scandinavians, etc., and as the schools have closed in order to allow the children to take part in the work, boys of all sizes are frequently seen kneeling at the vines.
The crop this year is very heavy, many vines yielding two trays or even three, containing twenty pounds each, and, as the trays are generally placed in alternate rows between the vines, we see, as we pass, continuous lines of them filled with grapes in various stages of curing, from the green to the amber-colored and the dark of the fully-cured raisin. The aroma from the drying berries is noticeable, and the breeze is laden with the spicy and pronounced odor of the Muscatel raisins.
The average size of a colony lot is twenty acres. Many settlers own two or three lots, a few owning four or five. But it must not be understood that the whole of these lots are planted to raisin grapes. While most of the larger tracts are almost exclusively planted to raisin grapes, the smaller farms of twenty acres contain as a rule only a few acres of vines, the balance being occupied by alfalfa, berries, garden, fruit trees, and yard for houses and barns. From three to fifteen acres of raisin-vines are found on every twenty-acre farm; none is without its patch of raisin-vines. We step off and inspect many of the places, large as well as small. Magnificent vineyards are owned by T. C. White, one of the oldest and most successful vineyardists, and by other parties, only second in importance to his. The vineyard of the late Miss Austin is yet in its prime, the evergreen trees and hedges being as inviting as in days of old. New vineyards which have not yet come into bearing are seen on every side, while in places whole orchards or single rows of trees have yielded to the axe to be replaced by the better-paying raisin-vines.
Some of the best-paying and largest vineyards are found east of Fresno City. From the very outskirts of the city we pass through raisin vineyards, very few fields being planted with anything else. Near the town some vineyards have given place to town lots, and whole villages are growing up in the old vineyards. We pass by the large vineyard of Frank Ball, containing about 120 acres, all in vines except a small reserve for house, barn and alfalfa field. Adjoining on the same road is the Bretzner vineyard of forty odd acres, the vines loaded with grapes. We turn to the left and, passing the vineyards of Merriam and Reed, see on our left the magnificent Cory vineyard of eighty acres, bordered by a wonderfully beautiful row of umbrella trees, with crowns as even as veritable gigantic umbrellas, and through the foliage of which not a ray of light can penetrate. A little farther on, also to the left, is the Gordon vineyard, lined by fan palms and fig trees. A large sign across the main road announces that we now enter the Butler vineyard, the largest and most famous vineyard in the State, with its six hundred acres nearly all in vines,—the largest vineyard in one body and owned by one man in the world. Magnificent avenues of poplars, magnolias and fan palms stretch in various directions leading to the outbuildings, of which the packing and drying houses appear most prominently. Mr. Butler’s home is one of the most attractive, shaded by umbrella trees and fantastic fan palms, and surrounded by flowers and evergreens. From his vineyard alone over five hundred carloads of raisins have been shipped, the yearly product being over one hundred thousand boxes of raisins,—a thousand tons. The vineyard now swarms with laborers; the teams wait in long lines to load the ready raisin-boxes, while the spaces between the vines, as far as we can see, are almost covered with continuous rows of trays, all loaded with Muscat grapes in all stages of drying.
We travel constantly eastward; on both sides are raisin vineyards, large and small. The four hundred acres owned by the Fresno Vineyard Company are devoted to wine grapes, and large wineries and cellars built of adobe show the wealth and extensive business of the place. No vacant land anywhere, nothing but vineyards, the only breaks being groves of trees shading the homes, wine cellars or packing-houses of the proprietor. Farther to the north lies in an unbroken row the well-known Eisen vineyard, where the first raisins were made in this district, but where now principally wine is produced; the Nevada and Temperance Colonies, devoted mostly to raisins; the Pew, the Kennedy, the Forsyth, Woodworth’s, Duncan’s, Goodman’s and Backman’s raisin vineyards, all splendidly cared for and lined by fig trees. Of these the Forsyth vineyard deserves more than a passing notice, as it is more inviting to an hour’s rest than any other. Containing 160 acres, nearly all in vines, it is one of the best properties of the county. The place shows an uncommon taste and refinement, and is beautified by avenues of poplars and magnolias, by groves of acacia and umbrella trees, by palms and flowers, and by roses and climbing plants. A pond with its lilies, overhung by weeping willows and shaded by stately elms, is an unusual sight even in this county of abundant irrigation. The packing-houses and dryer all display a taste and practical arrangement hardly seen elsewhere. A climb to the top of the tank-house is well worth the trouble. The view becomes wonderfully enlarged; we overlook the level plains, all in vines, with houses and groves scattered about like islands in a sea,—no wild, unbroken country anywhere. In the distance is Fresno City, to the north the view is hemmed in by new vineyards and colonies,—a mass of trees and vines in straight and regular rows. The courteous owner conducts us through his packing-house and shows us how the bunches are placed in layers and carefully made to fit every corner in the box, how the boxes are covered with papers and artistic labels and finally made ready for the market. As we pass out we get a glimpse of the equalizing room, crowded to the ceiling with sweatboxes, in which the raisins assume an even and uniform moisture. And what luscious bunches they are, large, sweet, thin skinned and highly flavored. Malaga produces nothing better, and much not as good. And, when we are all through tasting and admiring, we are invited into the cosy and artistically furnished dwelling, where in the cool shade the lunch and the rest are as welcome and interesting as the vineyards and packing-houses outside.