One of the most peculiar features of the California landscape is it’s rivers. You are riding on the cars, and suddenly from the peculiar sound you know you are riding upon a bridge. You presume you are crossing water, and look with interest from the car window. You see nothing but sand. A wide bed of sand. You ask what is this? And you are told it is the San Gabriel or the Santa Ana or some other river. A river without water is a curiosity. You are entering Los Angeles and rumble over the bridge you see again a wide bed of sand with a little stream a few yards wide working along in the extensive area of sand. You know by this time that it is a river but can hardly believe your eyes when, in February, you find yourself stranded in the city, unable to leave it, all on account of this same river, now a raging torrent overflowing it’s banks washing away bridges and ruining buildings, costing the railroads thousands of dollars to repair the damage done by this resistless river. It is the same stream and you can, if possible, decide which aspect you prefer. California believes in extremes and in the unexpected, and her rivers are not to be outdone in offering surprises to the tourists.