He reached the ranche, as the farm was called, dismounted at a wicket gate, and having fastened his horse, walked up several rods, over a gravelled-walk, and beneath an avenue of trees, with occasional clumps of shrubs and flowers, until he reached the residence.  It consisted of a spacious one story edifice, built of sun-baked bricks, called adobe.  The dwelling was a hundred feet long, and the roof was rendered impenetrable to rain, being covered with a thick coating of asphaltum, mingled with sand.  There was a spring of this valuable pitchy substance near the village; and the roofs of all the houses in Los Angelos were similarly covered.

A huge brass knocker was attached to the door.  In response to its summons, an Indian girl made her appearance, and ushered him into an elegantly furnished parlor.  There were several guitars lying about, with other indications that there were ladies in the household.  Soon the gentlemanly owner of the farm appeared, in morning gown and slippers.  He was a fine looking man, of dignified address, and courteously he saluted the stranger.

There was a native air of refinement about Kit Carson, with his highly intellectual features, and his modest, self-possessed bearing, which seemed always to win, at sight, interest and confidence.  Carson introduced himself as an American, though he spoke in the Spanish language.  His host, evidently much pleased with his guest, replied in English, saying: 

“I address you in your native tongue, which I presume is agreeable to you, though you speak very good Spanish.”

The parties were immediately on the most friendly terms.  Carson sought information which the Spanish gentleman was able and happy to give.  It was an early hour in the morning.  Carson was invited to remain to breakfast, and was soon conducted to the breakfast-room, where he was introduced to the wife of his host, and several sons and daughters.

There was no restraint in conversation, as both parties could speak, with equal apparent facility, the Spanish and the English.  There was a young gentleman from Massachusetts, a graduate from a New England college, who was private tutor in the family.  After breakfast the stranger was conducted around the farm, and to the vineyard.

“I have more grapes,” said the host, “than I know what to do with.  Last year I made more butts of wine than I could dispose of, and dried five thousand pounds of raisins.  I have travelled through Europe, and I think that neither the valley of the Rhine nor the Tagus can produce such grapes as ours.  I think that the Los Angelos grape is indeed food for angels.  They are equal to the grapes of Eschol.  You remember the heavy clusters that were found there, so that two men carried one on a pole resting upon their shoulders.  See that vine now.  It is six inches in diameter.  And yet it needs a prop to sustain the weight of the two clusters of grapes which it bears.”