At Pasadena their severe winds are called "Riversiders"; at Anaheim they are "Santa Anas"; and friends write me from damp Los Angeles to the dry air of Riverside, "How can you stay in that 'damp' place ?" The inhabitants of Riverside do not concede that Pasadena is a place for orange growers.

At Redlands, luckily above frost terrors, the terrible losses at Riverside from that trouble are profusely narrated.
San Diego gets its share of humorous belittlement from all.

You hear the story quoted of the shrewd Chinee who went to that city to look for business, where one hears much of future developments, but did not settle, saying, "It has too muchee bym-bye." Friends, and especially hotel proprietors, exclaim in disgusted astonishment, "What! going to Riverside?
Why, there's nothing there but oranges." I find more: fine and charming drives, scenery that differs from that of Pasadena, "that poem of nature set to music beneath the swaying rhythm of the pine forests of the lofty Sierra Madres," but is equally enjoyable and admirable.
Still, above all, and permeating every other interest, is the _orange_.
As to dampness, a physician threatened with consumption, and naturally desirous of finding the driest air, began while at Coronado Beach a simple but sure test for comparative degrees of "humidity" by just hanging a woolen stocking out of his window at night.

At that place it was wet all through, quite moist at Los Angeles, very much less so at Pasadena, dry as a bone or red herring or an old-fashioned sermon at Riverside.

Stockings will tell! (From April to September is really the best time to visit Coronado.) I experienced a very sudden change from a warm, delightful morning to an afternoon so penetrating by cold that I really suffered during a drive, although encased in the heaviest of Jaeger flannels, a woolen dress, and a heavy wrap.