I IAXFI EL 
 
 LEX I HH I Sill 
 
" //e sa silent in front of the cabin-door, with his pipe in his 
 mouth, and his hands folded, a picture of rest and contented 
 meditation." THANKSGIVING JOE. 
 
CAMP AND CABIN: 
 
 SKETCHES OF LIFE AND TRAVEL 
 
 THE WEST. 
 
 BY ROSSITER W. RAYMOND, 
 
 L.ATK L T . S. COMMISSIONKH OF MINING STATISTICS; EDITOB 
 
 " KNOINEKKING AND MINING JOUKNAL;" AUTI1OB 
 
 "MIMCS OF THE AVJCST," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT. 
 
 1880. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1879, 
 BY ROSSITER W. RAYMOND. 
 
 LOAN STAGE 
 
 it Cm r- 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed 
 
 By Rand, Avery, &> Company, 
 
 117 Franklin Street, 
 
 Boston. 
 
|HE sketches collected in this little volume 
 have been printed in various periodicals 
 within the last eight or nine years; and 
 the reader will bear this in mind as an explanation 
 of the fresh enthusiasm with which some of them 
 speak of scenes not so unfamiliar to the reading pub 
 lic now as when these papers were written. This is 
 particularly true of the " Sketches of the Yellowstone 
 Country," which it was rny privilege to traverse in 
 1871, when few white men had seen its beauties and 
 wonders. 
 
 With the single exception of " The Widow Baker," 
 the contents of the book are studies of character and 
 scenery in the Far West. The only justification I 
 can offer for including a New-England story in such 
 a collection is the fact that the language and the 
 influence of New England are found everywhere in 
 the West, and that nobody objects to their com 
 pany. 
 
 11. W. R. 
 BROOKLYN, N.Y., Dec. 10, 1879. 
 
 140 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 THANKSGIVING JOE . .... , . . . 7 
 
 AGAMEMNON ... . . . . , . 47 
 
 I. Young Bullion . . *.... . .47 
 
 II. Further Acquaintance . . ... 60 
 
 III. The Prodigal Father . .. . . .71 
 
 I V. The School-Teacher . . . . . . 81 
 
 V. Not Miss Mary but "quite Contrairy " . 91 
 
 VI. Similia Similibus Curantur . . .99 
 
 WIDOW BAKER . . . . . . . .104 
 
 I. Squire and Deacon 104 
 
 II. The Story of the Bakers 110 
 
 III. Board and Lodging 117 
 
 IV. Susan Peabody 124 
 
 V. Jotham 129 
 
 VI. How the Widow Interfered . ... 159 
 WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE . . . ..153 
 
 I. An Exploring Party 153 
 
 II. Up the Madison 162 
 
 III. March and Camp 168 
 
 IV. Hot-Springs and Geysers . . . .177 
 V. The Lower Geyser-Basin of the Fire-Hole . 186 
 
 VI. The Upper Geyser-Basin of the Fire-Hole . 193 
 
 VII. Yellowstone Lake and River . . . .201 
 
 THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON TERRITORY . . 208 
 
 THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK 225 
 
CAMP 
 
 CABIK 
 
 THANKSGIVING JOB. 
 A STORY OF THE SAGE-BRUSH. 
 
 llXACTLY whereabouts in the State of Ne 
 vada lies the now depopulated and aban 
 doned district once kno\vn to its numerous 
 residents, and introduced by " The Reese 
 River Reveille" to fame, as Silver Sheen, I shall not 
 reveal, lest some enterprising person should start at 
 once to find it, and to " relocate " - that is to say, 
 "jump" the extremely valuable claims which some 
 of my friends still own (and hope to sell) within its 
 borders. Suffice it to say, therefore, that Silver Sheen 
 was somewhere between Washoe and White Pine, and 
 partook, in the opinion of its population, of the favora 
 ble " indications" of both places. Certainly it looked 
 quite as promising as did either of those famously pro 
 ductive mining-fields before their treasures had been 
 discovered. But, to be candid, so does any point you 
 
 7 
 
CAMP AND CA1UN. 
 
 may please to choose in that vast desert basin known 
 as " the sage-brush country." Everywhere there are 
 the same broad, arid valleys, in which feeble moun 
 tain streams lose themselves and disappear without 
 gaining any goal ; the same bunch-grass, withered and 
 unpromising, but in reality nutritious, a sort of 
 standing hay, with seeds like kernels of grain held 
 tightly in its driecl-up fingers ; the same bare, weather- 
 beaten hills, cleft by precipitous canons in which are 
 hidden stunted plantations of plnon and cottonwood, 
 and along the sides of which, after snows melt in the 
 early summer, innumerable flowers adorn the desola 
 tion with a brief glory; the same dust-columns, mys 
 teriously rising in hot afternoons from the surface of 
 the plain, and whirling in slow dances like tall, slen 
 der genii of the air; the same exquisite mirage, 
 mocking the traveler with visions of rippling lakes 
 and cool bowery islands, where in reality only the 
 alkali flats stretch aw r ay, varied by an occasional clump 
 of gray bushes ; the same inevitable, ubiquitous sage 
 brush, always old, always dusty, always wasting its 
 aromatic fragrance upon heedless breezes or scornful 
 men; the white sage, small and silvery, beloved of 
 cattle ; the soft blue sky, the transparent air that 
 brings near the most distant horizon, and makes the 
 day s long journey seem in prospect but an hour s 
 walk ; the magical hues of brown and purple that 
 clothe at sunrise and sunset the mountain-side, and 
 the rich golden shade that rests upon the meadows 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 
 
 and slopes of bunch-grass : these elements are found 
 in so many localities, that I run no risk of exposing 
 Silver Sheen to the invasion of "jumpers " when I 
 say that it possessed them all. 
 
 I am reasonably safe, moreover, in remarking that 
 the district was richly endowed with mineral wealth. 
 Who ever knew of a mining-district in the West that 
 was not? Of course it had a "Mammoth " vein, and 
 a " Eureka," and a " Crown Point No. 2," and a 
 " Ruby," and numerous other promising deposits, 
 carefully baptized with names of good augury. Of 
 course, also, there was a grand tunnel scheme for pier 
 cing through the whole mountain-range, and " devel 
 oping its inexhaustible wealth ; " and a stamp-mill 
 (an experimental five-stamp affair) for reducing ores; 
 and of course the ores were refractory, and wouldn t 
 be reduced without some patent process yet undis 
 covered, but certain to be discovered if " capital " 
 could be had; and of course there was a weekly 
 paper, and a half-dozen bar-rooms, and talk of a 
 church. So far, nobody can distinguish Silver Sheen 
 from many another district in similar circumstances. 
 The driver of a semi-weekly stage which carried the 
 mail from Austin to all these districts in succession 
 could scarcely have told the camps apart, but for his 
 personal acquaintance with the bar-tenders and their 
 beverages, and with the peculiar bad piece of road 
 that each canon presented. 
 
 But Silver Sheen possessed Thanksgiving Joe, and 
 
10 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 he was certainly unique. Individual character devel 
 ops eccentricity much more easily in such rough 
 societies than under the restraints and convention 
 alities of polite life. All the citizens of Silver Sheen 
 were peculiar, each in his way, and each without 
 attracting special comment upon his oddity. Old 
 Heinrich, who would wear a red bandana in place 
 of a hat; Sam AVetherill, who regularly put on a 
 white shirt and a blue swallow-tail coat with brass 
 buttons -every Sunday morning; Redhead Pete, who 
 spent all his earnings in bribing Shoshone Indians to 
 show him the Lost Silver Mine, a mass of native 
 silver, concerning which everybody knows that it 
 exists, and nobody knows where, these gentlemen, 
 and a host of others who squandered at poker and 
 monte the proceeds of their labor or their speculations, 
 were allowed to pursue their ways without ridicule, 
 censure, or admiration. Then why should Thanks 
 giving Joe be regarded as singular? 
 
 This singularity could not consist, either, in the 
 mystery that surrounded his previous life. As Col. 
 Gore remarked in a quiet evening gathering at the 
 International, " The past, gentlemen, I say it with 
 out hesitation, and I think no person present will 
 differ : if so, I would like to speak further with that 
 person, the past belongs to the individooal ! It is 
 sacred, gentlemen, sacred ! " 
 
 A certain portion of the colonel s past had been 
 spent in sacred seclusion between stone walls ; and 
 
THANKSGIVING -JOE. 11 
 
 there were not a few among his auditors who had their 
 own reasons for guarding their own memories. So 
 no questions were asked by anybody, for fear of ques 
 tions in reply. Everty man s career was held to have 
 begun when he first "struck into the sage-brush." 
 For a new district must be populated by the overflow 
 from older ones, and it is the scum which overflows; 
 and if you keep stirring it up, why, nothing will ever 
 settle. I fancy, moreover, that there is in this rude 
 tolerance an element of noble feeling, a germ^f char 
 ity, a recognition of the duty of giving another chance 
 to those who, "the luck being against them," have 
 fallen from respectability, even so far as the humili 
 ation of public exposure. Certainly I have known 
 some instances of lives once wrecked that were suc 
 cessfully reconstructed, and launched again upon hon 
 orable voyages, from the friendly oblivion of such 
 communities. 
 
 Yet, after all, Thanksgiving Joe had appeared in 
 Silver Sheen in a manner calculated to distinguish 
 him, even in that adventurous and uninquisitive soci 
 ety. For, as the colonel said to Mr. Pickens of Chi 
 cago, when he pointed out to that gentleman, the morn 
 ing after his arrival, the cabin of Thanksgiving Joe, 
 high up the canon, half a mile beyond any other, " lie 
 never came to Silver Sheen at all, sir: Silver Sheen 
 came to him. When our hardy pioneers first entered 
 this secluded but immensely endowed region, and 
 penetrated to the heart of its argentiferous belt, there, 
 
12 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 sir, prostrate upon the outcrop of the biggest quartz- 
 ledge in the camp, they found him lying, with a bullet 
 in his shoulder, and and a fever in his brain," 
 added the colonel, to satisfy his ear for rhetoric. 
 
 This had, in truth, been the introduction of Joe s fel 
 low-citizens to him. While he was still unconscious, 
 oscillating between life and death, they had scoured 
 the neighborhood to find the villain who had shot him. 
 It must have been his "pardner ; " and the shot had 
 been delivered from behind, two circumstances 
 which would have secured short shrift for the culprit 
 if he had been caught. But the search was fruitless ; 
 and the boys returned from such trivial distractions 
 to the serious work of life. The district had to be 
 organized, and provided with a name. " Murder 
 Canon" did duty for a few weeks; but when Col. 
 Gore made his appearance it was changed, after an 
 eloquent speech from him, to " Silver Sheen." Then 
 "Veins had to be discovered, and claims " located," 
 "recorded," and "prospected." Yet Joe was not 
 entirely forgotten. A rough cabin was constructed 
 over the very spot where he had beer found: in this 
 the sick man was made rudely comfortable ; and, one 
 at a time, the population took turns in watching with 
 him. Moreover, they located in his name; and set 
 apart for him, two hundred feet of the " ledge " on 
 which he had fallen, and " which, gentlemen," said 
 the colonel, "he had recorded with his blood." 
 
 AH this had happened two years before the time 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 13 
 
 at which my story is going by and by to begin. 
 Joe recovered his consciousness after a week, and 
 his strength in the course of two months. The man 
 who was with him w r hen he first awoke in his right 
 mind, from the critical sleep that denoted the turning 
 of the fever, remarked in describing the scene that 
 he " never see a feller so grateful for nothin at all. 
 Thanked me for a drink o water s if it d been a 
 barrel o whiskey. Asked me whar he was, n I told 
 him ; n how he came thar, n I told him ; n whether 
 anybody was with him, n I told him nary one ; n I 
 jest informed him what a kiting old hunt we had for 
 the feller as drawed on jhim f m behind, n how mad 
 we was not to git a holt on him ; and says he, Thank 
 God ! and goes to sleep again like a baby." 
 
 The next man on watch had a few additional par 
 ticulars to report. The patient had awaked again at 
 midnight, and inquired after a buckskin money-belt, 
 which, having been found by his side apparently 
 empty when he was first discovered, had been kept 
 rather by accident than design, and lay at that mo 
 ment neglected on the floor in a corner of the cabin. 
 The belt w r as brought to him ; and he lifted it feebly, 
 without any expression of surprise at its lightness, ran 
 his fingers along the pliant leather to the end, and 
 then with a sudden smile said, " Thank God ! " and 
 dropped to sleep again. The watcher, unaccustomed 
 to hear such expressions of gratitude from men whose 
 money-belts had been rifled (for this W 7 as the univer- 
 
14 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 sal verdict with regard to Joe s case), had subsequent 
 ly examined the belt, and found in it d folded paper, 
 bearing these words in a handwriting which might 
 have been that of a woman, but on this point the 
 witness, being no expert, and a little off practice be 
 sides, could not be positive : 
 
 " Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving; " 
 
 and below them a date (time but no place being 
 given) and a single initial J. The date was five years 
 old. lie had spelled out the motto, and returned the 
 paper to its resting-place, with a half-superstitious 
 feeling that it was an amulet of some sort. A simi 
 lar impression prevailed among those who heard of 
 it ; and from that day the convalescent was called 
 Thanksgiving Joe, a title which he accepted without 
 protest or inquiry. The " Joe " was a happy expan 
 sion of the J in the secret paper; and, as the recipient 
 of the name answered when thus addressed, it served 
 all the purposes of a complete and perfect title. To 
 a visitor who once asked him if that were his real 
 name, he replied simply, " It is my given name ;" and 
 curiosity received no further satisfaction. 
 
 AVhen Joe got well enough to work, he began as a 
 day-laborer for another miner ; for in all the new dis 
 tricts there are almost from the beginning a few at 
 least who bring some money with them, which they 
 can employ in the more ra,pid development of the 
 claims they select; and by working for these few at 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 15 
 
 high rates of wages the others earn the funds neces 
 sary for the purchase of food and clothing to supply 
 them while they lay open their own selected ground. 
 Like all the miners in Silver Sheen, Joe did a good 
 day s work for a day s wages. Laziness was not the 
 besetting sin of the boys, except, perhaps, on occa 
 sions when they really laid themselves out to be lazy. 
 Then even Broadway could not turn out an equal 
 number of more perfectly listless and vacuous loafers. 
 At other times that sort of thing was left mainly to 
 Col. Gore, whose business was loafing as a sort of 
 master of ceremonies to the bar-room of the Interna 
 tional, in the profits of which he had a share. 
 
 But Thanksgiving Joe had his own way of loafing. 
 Nobody was more faithful than he with pick or sledge 
 while the "shift" lasted; but when work was done 
 he would go off up the canon alone to his solitary 
 cabin, and presently would be seen the slender smoke 
 of his fire as he fried his bacon and boiled his coffee. 
 A little later Joe himself would be visible against the 
 clear yellowing sky, as he sat silent in front of the 
 cabin-door, with his pipe in his mouth, and his hands 
 placidly folded, a picture of rest and contented medi 
 tation. In any other state of society he would have 
 been a strange figure. His hair and beard were long 
 and snow-white, his form was slightly bent ; but those 
 signs of age were merely the results of his fever, and 
 were moreover contradicted by the brightness of his 
 dark eyes, and the great strength which he occasion- 
 
16 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 ally exhibited. When the drift of the Desdemona 
 caved in, and the day-shift were all caught in the 
 timbers, it was Joe who held up the lagging in the 
 broken ground till the boys got a stull wedged under 
 it, and crawled out safe and sound. And when the 
 memorable cloud-burst of G9 took place on the sum 
 mit above Silver Sheen, and twenty feet of water 
 came booming down the canon, it was Joe who waded 
 in the nick of time to the shebang where Sam "VVeth- 
 erill lay helpless with rheumatism (the result, by the 
 way, of too much white shirt on an. inclement Sun 
 day), and brought him bodily, mattress, vicuna blan 
 ket, and all, to the dry bank. In short, Thanksgiving 
 Joe was looked upon by his comrades as a sort of 
 tutelary demi-god, a Hercules or Hiawatha, dwelling 
 somewhat apart, but ready to descend at a moment s 
 notice, and perform deeds of deliverance for the 
 dwellers in the land below. 
 
 As they had taken turns watching with him while 
 he was ill, so now they took turns in visiting him ; for 
 it was soon discovered that before two or three, listen 
 ers he was prone to silence, but when a single friend 
 approached him sympathetically he would talk with a 
 simple, homely elevation of spirit that made him seem 
 like a messenger from another country. " He ain t 
 our kind exactly," the boys concluded; "but he s a 
 better kind, and no shenannigan about him either." 
 (" Shenannigan " is the miner s term for humbug.) 
 So they fell into the habit of strolling up the canon, 
 one at a time, to hear Joe talk. 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 17 
 
 The nickname they had given him grew more and 
 more appropriate as they learned to know him better ; 
 for the characteristic feature of his moods and words 
 was a marvelous perpetual gratitude. " No : he don t 
 look on the bright side neither," replied Sam Wether- 
 ill one day, to somebody s comment upon one of Joe s 
 sayings : " things don t have nary bright side nor dark 
 side to him. Told me that himself. Says he, * When 
 things is transparent, it s bright o both sides/ says 
 he, purvided there s a light on t other; " which 
 somewhat distorted version of Joe s apothegm con 
 veyed well enough the meaning that was meant to 
 shine through it. 
 
 With his first savings Joe had fitted -himself out for 
 a period of labor on his own hook at the Mammoth 
 vein, on which, by common consent, he held the cen 
 tral claim. But the Mammoth, like many another 
 huge quartz outcrop in that country, seemed to consist 
 of a maximum of barren gangue and a minimum of 
 valuable ore. Black specks thpre were through the 
 mass, and now and then a considerable body of some 
 unknown mineral, over which the most experienced 
 miners shook their heads, and said it was " no doubt 
 this yer base metal, and wouldn t amalgamate worth 
 a red." Joe toiled patiently on, however, until he had 
 sunk his prospecting shaft, without aid from any otlier 
 person, to the depth of twelve feet, and had extracted 
 from it a dozen tons of rock, out of which a couple of 
 tons of ore were, with much hammering and overhaul- 
 
18 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 ing, selected. By this time the little five-stamp mill 
 had been erected in the camp ; and to this establish 
 ment Joe packed a ton of his selected ore, to have it 
 " worked " as a test. In a few days a stylish certifi 
 cate was returned to him, from which it appeared that 
 his ore had yielded two dollars and fifty cents, while 
 the charge for operating upon it was twenty-five dol 
 lars. It took the last coin in his leather belt to pay 
 the bill ; but he paid it like a man, and walked 
 straight back to the Desdemona, where they were 
 giad enough to take him again into the day-shift. 
 
 That evening Sam Wetherill found him smoking 
 his pipe as usual in front of the cabin. This edifice, 
 by the way, deserves a brief description. It was con 
 structed of piilon (nut-pine) stems, sharpened at the 
 lower end, and driven into the rocky debris, which took, 
 in that locality, the place of soil. Three sides of the 
 single apartment constituting the dwelling were thus 
 inclosed. In one of them a door was constructed by 
 the simple process of leaving out three or four stakes. 
 The fourth side, or back, was formed by the project 
 ing outcrop of the " Mammoth Ledge," itself; and 
 Joe, having more room than he needed for his bunk 
 and stool, and the shelf which served him as a table, 
 had carried on his mining operations in the place 
 where he slept and ate, gradually accumulating a heap 
 of waste rock, which he piled up into a heavy parti 
 tion between the bedroom and the mine. In this way 
 the mine, which began by being in doors, gradually 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 1 ( J 
 
 found itself out doors, and caused no further inconven 
 ience to the house than might result from the drop 
 ping, after a blast, of a stray rock through the roof. 
 But nobody was inside at such times ; and the damage 
 was easily repaired with a little sage-brush and adobs 
 clay, the latter being, in fact, the universally useful 
 material with which all leaks in Silver Sheen were 
 stopped against wind and weather. 
 
 It was before this mud-and-stockade villa that Sam 
 AVetherill found Thanksgiving Joe, after his first day 
 of renewed experience in the Desdemona. Sam s 
 way of meeting such a disappointment as he thought 
 Joe had experienced would have been to put on that 
 white shirt and that blue dress-coat, and drown his 
 sorrows in a majestic spree at the International; but, 
 feeling instinctively that this remedy would not suit 
 his friend, he came up to show his sympathy in the 
 way of words at least, not without a shade of secret 
 satisfaction that Joe had finally struck a piece of ill 
 fortune, over which even he could scarcely give 
 thanks. 
 
 " A little down on yer luck, old man? " was his con- 
 dolorous greeting. " Wai now, it was too bad for 
 th is yer Mammoth Ledge to go back on yer that way ! 
 That thar base metal don t do nothin in the pans but 
 jest flour the quick, n slum it all up. 1 But you jest 
 hold up your head, old man, n get a pardner, n pros- 
 
 1 Granulate the quicksilver used in amalgamation, and render it 
 foul. 
 
20 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 pect around a little. S no good, this yer coyotin 
 alone, 1 n backin out o yer hole every time you -want 
 a drink o water. F I hadn t gone in with Dutch 
 Ileinrich, on the Bismarck Extension, almighty big 
 thing too, I d like to be yer pardner myself: n 
 thar s Redhead Pete, he s a good hand to work, s 
 long s he does work ; but he s off agin arter that lost 
 silver mine, somebody 11 find that thar mine some o 
 these days; but it won t be Pete. Dutchy says there s 
 no end o stories about sich mines in his country, and 
 nobody finds em on purpose. Some galoot out after 
 jackass-rabbits, or sage-hens, or mountain-sheep, jest 
 accidentally pulls up a bush, or sets down on a rock, 
 n happens to look between his boots, n thar s a 
 chunk o the clear bullion 950 fine. But Pete 
 he ll never find nothin but Injun wicky-ups. 2 How 
 ever, you won t have no trouble about a pardner. 
 Anybody ll be glad to get you, n set you up in 
 bacon and beans to start on too. So you jest shake 
 yourself, old man, n cheer up. It s all fer the best, 
 you know f yer able to see it in that light." 
 
 Sam was very well satisfied with the rate at which 
 he was getting on in his new role of messenger of 
 consolation ; but, as ho afterwards expressed it, his 
 " idees all leaked out " of him when Thanksgiving 
 
 1 Digging like a coyote, or prairie-fox. 
 
 2 The slight temporary shelter of brush, under which the Nevada 
 Indians sleep, not worthy to he compared with the wigwams and 
 lodges of the stronger and richer tribes of the North. 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 21 
 
 Joe took liis pipe from his mouth, and said reflec 
 tively, 
 
 " There isn t any other light, is there? " 
 
 "Wai, no," replied Sam in a dubious way, and 
 added, with evident relief, as if he had found a solu 
 tion, "not ef you see it in that light." 
 
 "Exactly," continued Joe. "Light is light; and 
 there s only one kind, thank God ! " 
 
 16 An may I be if you ain t the " 
 
 (These dashes are not my device for indicating 
 Sam s ready profanity. They show where that fluent 
 blasphemer actually paused and choked, leaving a 
 significant silence. For Joe s thanksgiving carried a 
 sort of echo, in the presence of which a man couldn t 
 start right oft , and invoke heaven or hell as if nothing 
 had happened. Moreover, Sam s choking attracted 
 his own attention as a novel phenomenon. He 
 stopped for a moment, pondered it, and broke out in 
 a new spot " as follows) : 
 
 "The boys in this yer camp mention Him, you 
 know" here Sam took off his hat, and replaced it 
 with the air of having done the handsome thing for 
 once in his life " toPble frequent and free ; but I 
 don t jest recall any onreas nable number of em as 
 lays emselves out to thank him. They ain t heavy 
 on the thank ! They jest let the parsons do that by 
 contract, n they take it mighty easy, only one shift 
 a week, n singlehand drillin at that. But you do 
 the thankin fur the crowd. Not that anybody s got 
 
22 CAMP AND CA1JIN. 
 
 any Ijcction; only, when you take to thankin over 
 them mill-returns, it might sort o seem to any feller 
 that didn t know ycr ways, as if you was p raps rub- 
 bin it in a trifle, playing off on us, you know. 
 Now, you can t be glad o that thar base metal, you 
 know: it s agin reason." 
 
 ; I didn t say I was glad," replied Joe imperturba- 
 bly, watching the long shadows from the summit as 
 they reached down like fingers, and clasped the settle 
 ment in the canon. " I am thankful now ; and I expect 
 to be glad." 
 
 Sam seated himself by his paradoxical friend, like 
 one who was bound to get to the bottom of a mystery. 
 
 " Go easy," said he : " I ain t used to the road, 
 but I m bound to know what you re drivin fur. Now, 
 let s locate our discovery stake, n take our bearin s. 
 You don t handle pick n sledge jest fur amusement, 
 or yer shattered constitution. What do you figger on, 
 -town-lots, or rich quartz, or what n thundery " 
 
 " Patience ! " said Joe. 
 
 Sam Wetherill swallowed the first word that came 
 to his lips, and sat in silence for a while, trying to get 
 up a substitute less objectionable, and equally expres 
 sive of his feeling. But the vocabulary of ejacula 
 tions is small at best, and the habit of profanity nar 
 rows it still further. Nobody is so hopelessly stuck 
 for a word as the man who suddenly suppresses a con 
 venient oath. So Mr. Wetherill, in despair, whistled 
 softly to himself a bar of "My name it is Joe Bowers," 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 23 
 
 and then, looking up, remarked, " Thar s a good pros 
 pect for that. Putty much every tiling that happens 11 
 assay well enough, n yield rich in the pans too, ef all 
 you want to git out of it is patience, and not bullion." 
 u Yes," said Joe : "all things work together." 
 "Well, I give it up," replied Sam. "All I got to 
 say is, you do. as I tell you, n git yerself a pardner. 
 When you n him work together, as you say, I hope 
 you ll strike something that pays better n patience 
 though I expect that pays too, in the long-run, when a 
 fellow comes to the last big clean-up." And *he hon 
 est miner, stepping down the zigzag trail to the canon, 
 disappeared in the gathering shadows. , 
 
 Thanksgiving Joe continued for a month his quiet 
 and regular life ; then he took a partner after a fasli- 
 ion which rendered this natural and advisable step 
 one of the most surprising of the many unusual fea 
 tures of his career in Silver Sheen. Everybody said 
 he d " be blowed," when he first heard of it ; and about 
 half the camp bet two to one with the other half that 
 it wasn t true, the takers being secretly of that opin 
 ion themselves, but accepting the odds just to make 
 things lively. A very positive skeptic (no people are 
 so positive, by the way, as those who assume the neg 
 ative) went so far, on being assured of the circum 
 stance by Joe himself, as to offer to put up five dollars 
 that Joe was mistaken. And Col. Gore, scarcely ever 
 at a loss for words, was fairly staggered to express 
 what at last ho called the " preposterosity " of the 
 
24 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 story. For, according- to the statements of the par 
 ties concerned, this meekest, mildest, quietest, and 
 thankfullest of men had selected, out of a camp full 
 of friends, the only man who was not his friend, 
 Bill Hazard, the new hand on the night-shift at the 
 Desdemona: a fellow who was set down as a "rough," 
 and quietly let alone. If anybody even Joe had 
 killed him, it would have been reckoned nothing as 
 tonishing; and the presumption would have been 
 strong, in the absence of evidence, that " Bill must 
 a dra^d on the other feller first." But that any 
 one not himself a "rough" should join hands with 
 Bill for any honest purpose was amazing beyond 
 explanation. 
 
 Yet Mr. William Hazard bore an appearance which 
 strangely belied his reputation. Ho was handsome 
 almost to effeminacy, with a smooth, pale-dark beauty 
 which neither sun nor wind seemed io affect. But 
 the delicacy of his face was striking at a distance 
 only : upon a closer view it was perceived to bear the 
 nameless shadow of evil passions, a soft face grown 
 hard. But some things distinguished Bill Hazard 
 from his class. He did not drink, that was not so 
 strange : many of these men are practically teetotal 
 ers ; but they usually abstain from stimulants because 
 they are gamblers, and wish to be, under all cir 
 cumstances, masters of themselves ; whereas Hazard 
 did not play cards, and, strangest of all, he never 
 indulged in that cheap vice, which, since it affecte 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 25 
 
 directly neither the personal efficiency of the individ 
 ual, nor the property interests of the community, is 
 apt to be universally allowed and practiced in rude 
 settlements: I mean profanity, "the only thing," as 
 Sam Wetherill once said (after he had given it up, 
 by the way, "swore off"), "the only thing that a 
 real poor sinner could git cheap." 
 
 This freedom from all vices was one great element 
 that helped to make Bill Hazard intolerable to his 
 companions. Their instincts read clearly the princi 
 ple which they could not have put in words, that true 
 goodness of nature involves good nature. Perhaps 
 Sam, after all, expressed it philosophically when he 
 said, " These yer bad habits are the devil s contriv 
 ances, you bet ; n he catches many a poor feller s soul 
 that never meant no harm. But I ve knowed fellers 
 to strike it rich, n make a home stake, n just take 
 their Wells Fargo drafts, n git for the East, n. hunt 
 up their old folks, or mebbe their wives ? n young uns, 
 n. leave off their liquor, n never touch a card why, 
 ef you d ask em to * ante up, they wouldn t know 
 what you meant; 11 all these yer devil s traps was 
 clean busted for them. But when you clap your eyes 
 on one of them smooth fellers like Bill Hazard, s 
 hard n s barren s cap-rock, you don t want no further 
 news about him. The devil s in him: he don t go 
 for to waste no bad habits on a sure thing like that." 
 
 No, Sam was not quite correct. He overlooked a 
 deeper-lying truth. The vices that brutalize men are 
 
26 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 dead weights that hang upon them for ever : no euro 
 can enable him to walk in the full, erect stature of 
 manhood who has bent earthward for years under 
 such burdens. And, on the other hand, souls may 
 be hardened by malign passion, which, nevertheless, 
 being smitten aright, shall suddenly be transformed, 
 and Lucifer become again the Son of the Morning. 
 Hatred, akin to love, has somewhat of love s preserv 
 ing power. Jt may ward off meaner fiends ; and 
 though its condor talons, and dark, brooding wings 
 are surely fatal in the end to its helpless captive, yet, 
 if frightened from its nest in time, it may soar 
 gloomily away, to return no more, and leave behind 
 the rescued soul like a child unharmed. 
 
 Thanksgiving Joe, replying to the remark of Sam 
 Wetherill above quoted, put the argument in a home 
 lier way : 
 
 "I don t know about that, Sam: it is a good deal 
 like sickness. When I had my fever, I should never 
 have pulled through unless I had been helped by my 
 good constitution. A man may have one thing pretty 
 bad, and get over it ; but, if he has too many things 
 ailing him at once, it s a poor show for the doctors. 
 Now, if Will was only cured of the one thing that 
 troubles him, I think he would be a pretty healthy 
 man; whereas you boys, if you don t look out, will 
 get yourselves tangled up with so many diseases, that 
 your moral constitutions will be just disintegrated, 
 like any old outcrop, and nothing will take hold of 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 27 
 
 you. And thank God ! " added Joe softly, half to 
 himself, " I believe I can cure him." 
 
 Sam was surprised to hear the new partner called 
 "Will," a form of his name which no one else in 
 the camp employed. It argued even affection for 
 him ; being as far removed from the ceremonious 
 "Mr.," on one hand, as from the "BillV of mere ordi 
 nary acquaintanceship, on the other. But he made 
 no comment, and presently sauntered homeward, more 
 than ever convinced that Thanksgiving Joe was "too 
 good for this yer style o thing," and would certainly 
 get into trouble with his kind heart and foggy head, 
 if some friend without too tender a conscience did not 
 stand between him and the perilous results of his 
 unsuspicious kindness. The conclusion of this train 
 of thought was a resolve to "keep an eye on that 
 Hazard ; n if he tried any games on Joe, jest put a 
 hole in him." 
 
 This was the evening of the day on which the part 
 nership had been formed. It had been negotiated at 
 sunrise, as the clay-shift going into the Desdernona 
 met the night-shift coming out. Bill Hazard, coming 
 out of the mine, looked up, as if drawn by a strange, 
 horrid fascination, to the long white outcrop of the 
 Mammoth vein, that caught the first tints of day, and 
 stood out clearly over the dimness of the deep canon. 
 Then he turned away with set teeth, as if the sight 
 both pained and angered him, and, as he turned, felt 
 on his shoulder the hand of Thanksgiving Joe, whose 
 
28 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 face was moved as if with the emotion of a sudden 
 recognition. Hazard glanced at him carelessly, and 
 started to pass on. But Joe detained him, and said 
 simply, 
 
 " I want a partner, and I must have you. There s 
 my place, yonder, on the hill. Come up to-night, 
 and talk it over." 
 
 Something in the tone of Joe s voice startled the 
 listener. It was like a voice, perhaps, that he had 
 heard before ; but as he hurriedly glanced again at 
 the speaker, who had partly turned from him to 
 point out the cabin on the mountain, he saw only the 
 white hair and beard and the stooping shoulders. It 
 was certainly a stranger. Yet he could not command 
 a perfect cynical indifference in replying to the 
 stranger s words. There was a shade of sadness in 
 his answer, 
 
 "If you talk it over, you ll change your mind. 
 You made some mistake in your man." 
 
 " Then I won t talk it over," replied Joe. " Call it 
 settled. No mistake, thank God ! on my part. I 
 shall expect you. You know wheie to find me." 
 And, with another gesture toward his cabin, he moved 
 away. 
 
 "No, not there," ejaculated Bill Hazard fiercely. 
 The other was already some distance away; and his 
 features were not distinctly seen as he paused at these 
 words, and stood with his back to the morning; but 
 his voice carried mingled compassion and command. 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 29 
 
 "Yes, there!" said lie, and, swiftly striding to 
 wards the mine, met the rest of the night-shift hast- 
 iii2f homeward. At the same moment he overtook his 
 
 tD 
 
 own companions : the two parties were mingled. 
 
 " My last day with you, boys," he remarked cheer 
 fully. "Will Hazard and I are going to try our luck 
 as partners." 
 
 Thus the surprising news was conveyed in a trice 
 to the two classes that composed the population of 
 Silver Sheen, namely, those who worked by day, 
 and those who worked by night. Before Joe came 
 out of the Desdemona at the close of his shift, in the 
 afternoon, everybody had heard of it. 
 
 After Sam Wetherill s brief call that evening at 
 the cabin, Thanksgiving Joe sat alone, waiting for 
 the other visitor whom he expected. His usual calm 
 demeanor seemed to have forsaken him. He piled 
 brush on the smoldering fire where he had cooked 
 his supper, until it flamed like the beacon that Hero 
 S2t to guide the course of her coming lover. By its 
 blazing light he strove to see down the path that led 
 to the canon, but to his dazzled eyes the shadows 
 were darker than before. Far below, like stars re 
 flected, twinkled the candles in many a window ; but 
 between them and him w r as a black gulf. Drawing 
 from his pocket a worn newspaper, he began to read, 
 by way of enforcing patience ; but nothing attracted 
 his interest until his eye fell upon a bold head-line 
 introducing the governor s proclamation of Thanks- 
 
30 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 giving Day. The name reminded him of his own 
 sobriquet, and he glanced down the lines as if the 
 announcement had some special meaning for him. 
 The governor, not unwilling to combine business with 
 worship, had painted in brilliant colors the produc 
 tiveness of the mines of the State, and hinted, as 
 additional cause for gratitude, that new discoveries 
 well worthy of the attention of capitalists were daily 
 made. That part Joe passed over with a smile, 
 thinking, perhaps, of his Mammoth vein, and its per 
 fidious "base metal." Over another paragraph he 
 paused with brightening looks. It alluded to the cir 
 cumstance that all the States now observed, in ac 
 cordance with the President s recommendation, a 
 simultaneous Thanksgiving Day. His thoughts wan 
 dered far to the East, over deserts and mountains, 
 and the great plains and the great rivers, to the 
 Jersey village which he had not seen for five years ; 
 from which, since his fever, two years ago, he had not 
 heard. The memory was disquieting; for it was his 
 own course alone that had thus cut him off from 
 whom? Only one friend ; and she only a friend. It 
 was Thanksgiving Day, too, when he saw her last. 
 The parson s sermon he had forgotten it, all but 
 the text : that Jenny had written out for him, to 
 satisfy a whim of his ; and he had folded up the paper, 
 and carried it night and "day ever since. If he had 
 spoken plainly that night, would she have become 
 more than a friend? Alas, perhaps ! yet no, no. 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 31 
 
 A hundred times he had been thankful that she was 
 ignorant of his love and his sacrifice ; that he had 
 left her with a pleasant farewell, expecting to return, 
 after two or three years, with money enough to justify 
 him in asking for her hand ; that he had never be 
 trayed his feelings in those friendly letters which ho 
 had sent so regularly, and which were so regularly 
 answered until ah ! he must not think of that. 
 Her dear letters were all destroyed. He had burned 
 them himself, keeping only the Thanksgiving text, 
 and vowing, for her sake, and his own soul s sake, 
 and the sake of him whom Jenny loved, to live 
 apart from her, save in his secret thoughts, and, haply, 
 in the life to come. To-morrow was Thanksgiving 
 Day again, and he tried to think it a good omen. 
 His sacrifice was not complete : to-night, he hoped, 
 would happily perfect his \\ork. Yet the pain of loss 
 was not wholly dead ; and even at this moment he 
 would give worlds to undo utterly, so that it could be 
 as if it had not been, the scheme which he was never 
 theless ready to give his life, if need be, to consum 
 mate. For a man is still a man; and Joe was only 
 thirty, for all his white hairs. 
 
 Absorbed in thought, he heeded not the sound of 
 climbing feet, until a step close at hand aroused him. 
 As he sprang up and stood erect, with the fire-light 
 full upon him, William Hazard strode suddenly out 
 of the darkness, looked for an instant with an intense, 
 bewildered, frightened gaze, into his eyes, and stag- 
 
32 CAMP AND CA1UN. 
 
 gered speechless back against tlie corner of the cabin, 
 staring as at a ghost. The governor s proclamation 
 fell from Joe s hands, which were stretched out in 
 hearty welcome. 
 
 " Don t look at me that way, Will," he said. " I 
 see you know me now, though you did not this morn 
 ing. I m changed since my fever, but not in my 
 heart toward you." 
 
 The stony look of fright passed from the pale, 
 young face, the hard lines softened ; but Will Hazard 
 still shrank from the clasp of Joe s welcoming hands. 
 " Shoot," he said, folding his arms across his breast : 
 " it s your turn, and I m glad of it ! " 
 
 "Amen! " replied the deep voice of Thanksgiving 
 Joe. " It is my turn : your life belongs to me. Is it 
 not so?" 
 
 His visitor nodded without speaking, and gloomily 
 smiled his contempt for the worthless existence al 
 luded to. 
 
 "I suppose I may spare it, if I prefer that way," 
 said Joe. 
 
 " As you choose," replied Hazard. 
 
 "As I was saying this morning," continued Joe, 
 with a quiet consciousness of the power over a des 
 perate soul which this strange interview had for a 
 moment given him, " I want a partner, and you are 
 the man. I told you to come here and talk it over; 
 and you have come. Now, if I kill you, how can we 
 talk it over? " he added slowly, and rubbed his hands 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 33 
 
 together in mute applause at the triumphant argu 
 ment. "There s some mistake, Will. You gave me 
 no chance to explain, otherwise you could not have 
 thought I was your enemy." Then, suddenly chan 
 ging his manner, he asked, " Have you heard from 
 Jenny Lockhart? " 
 
 " What is the use of tormenting me with her 
 name? " returned Will. " She is the cause of all the 
 trouble. A woman is not worth a friend; and for 
 that woman I threw my friend away. I loved you, 
 George, till the devil of jealousy took possession of 
 me. When I left the States, three years ago, she had 
 promised to be my wife. You were her cousin and 
 my friend. She wrote to you, and you read me her 
 letters. They were pleasant, cousinly letters, and I 
 liked to hear them. I did not tell you of the love- 
 letters she wrote at the same time to me. I wanted 
 to watch you. I suspected you of receiving others of 
 which you said nothing. 
 
 " You carried in your belt a paper which you never 
 showed. I felt sure it contained your secret. I tried 
 to get it without your knowledge; but you kept it 
 always on your body, night and day. At last you 
 did receive a letter a letter from her which you 
 did not show to me. I saw you read it, at night, by 
 the light of the camp-fire, when you thought I was 
 asleep. You put your head in your hands, and sat a 
 long time. Then you took from your bosom a pack 
 age of letters, put them all in the fire with the one 
 
3-1 CAMP AND CAJUN. 
 
 you had just read, and watched them till they were 
 burned up. You took that paper from your belt, as 
 if you would burn that too ; and, as you did so, I 
 prepared to spring out of my blanket, and seize it. 
 I was determined to know what was in it. But you 
 read it through, shook your head, and put it back in 
 your belt. 
 
 " The next clay as we were exploring, two or three 
 miles from our camp, we came over the summit to 
 the head of this canon. You know well enough what 
 happened. You sat down close by this spot, on the 
 croppings of that ledge, and began to tell me that 
 you had received a letter from Jenny. It was too 
 much for me to bear : I had been cursing over it all 
 night, anyhow. I hated her and you as a pair of 
 double-dealing deceivers. I forgot that she only was 
 deceiving me : you could not know that I was en 
 gaged to her. I interrupted you fiercely, charged you 
 with treachery, demanded the secret paper from you, 
 and, without waiting for your answer, sprang upon 
 you in a fury to snatch the belt from your waist. 
 
 " We fell together. I swear to you, George Gra 
 ham, that I did not draw my revolver. It went off 
 by accident. But the rage of murder was in my 
 heart; and it seemed to me as if my black thoughts 
 had become hands, and fired the pistol. You fainted, 
 I suppose. I thought I had killed you, and I fled like 
 Cain. But I would have come back to you, only I 
 saw from a distance a party approaching. They 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 35 
 
 came, as if guided by a pointing hand, straight to the 
 spot where you lay. I saw them take you up, and 
 knew by their angry gestures, and their keen looks in 
 every direction, that they were determined to hunt 
 do\vn your murderer. At first I would have re 
 turned, and surrendered myself; but, when some of 
 them started in the direction where I crouched, the 
 instinct of fear took hold on me, and I ran. They 
 neither caught nor discovered me ; and I found my 
 way to Austin, to Virginia City, to Unionville, to 
 Boise, to Helena, to Salt Lake, to Denver, to Santa 
 Fc, to Prescott and Tucson, to La Paz, and San 
 Diego, to San Francisco, Sacramento, Yreka, every 
 where, with the devil in my heart. 
 
 " Two desires tortured me for ever. I could not de 
 stroy them, and I dared not fulfill them. One was to 
 return to this place, gain some news of you, and find 
 at least your grave. The other was to go back to 
 Jersey, meet Jenny Lockhart, tell her of the ruin she 
 had brought on honest men, how one had lost his 
 life, and the other his soul, by her faithlessness, and 
 so make her taste a share of the bitterness that I felt. 
 I couldn t do it I in short, I loved the girl yet, in 
 spite of all she had done, and I despised myself for 
 it. I m bad enough, too bad, in fact, to take any 
 pleasure in the beastly sins of these low-lived Wretches. 
 I don t like mankind well enough to drink or gamble 
 with them. I don t fight them even, though they 
 seem to think me a desperate fellow, who would as 
 
36 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 soon kill a dozen of them as not. Bah ! if a man 
 simply despises them, they think he must want their 
 blood. Sots, thieves, and murderers : that s their 
 classification of society. They were right, so far as 
 I am concerned. I was a murderer in passion, and I 
 thought in deed; but the business had no such at 
 tractions as to make me intend to carry it on whole 
 sale and for life. 
 
 " I ll not make a long story of it. But you wanted 
 to talk it over, and you had better hear me out. 
 When I am done, I am done. I don t play the re 
 pentant sinner with you, George Graham. It seems 
 to me there is no room and no use for repentance. I 
 could love you if you could trust me again; but 
 that s impossible. Your forgiveness I don t want. 
 What I want is to pay my debt. I will not be your 
 partner; but, if you will let me work for you, it will 
 be a better reparation than I expected to make when 
 I came up here to-night. I came here, as I came to 
 this camp a fortnight ago, because I couldn t keep 
 aw r ay. When they talked of Thanksgiving Joe, and 
 showed me your cabin, on the very spot that was the 
 most dreadful to me in all the w r orld, I knew in my 
 soul that somehow my fate w r as fastened to yours. 
 I thought you had my secret, and would be my judge. 
 I wouldn t let anybody tell me the story of Thanks 
 giving Joe the name was awful to me. And at 
 last you found me, and called me and I came to my 
 doom. It is better than I dreamed. Even I can 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 37 
 
 give thanks to know that George Graham, hated and 
 wronged, was not killed outright by the hand of his 
 treacherous friend. 
 
 " George, I will do for you what man may do. 
 Perhaps you may some day begin to trust me over 
 again, and lay the blame of my crime upon the 
 woman w r ho betrayed us both." 
 
 During this long, speech neither of the parties had 
 moved. Will Hazard stood, at its conclusion, with 
 his arms still folded, and looked into the fire. He 
 had kept his eyes fixed on the glowing brands, speak 
 ing in low, measured tones, as if another spoke 
 through him. But George Graham had never re 
 moved his keen gaze from the face of his friend; 
 and now he stepped forward once more, laid his hand 
 upon Will s shoulder, and said, 
 
 " Thank God, you love her yet ! " 
 
 The young man, taken by surprise at this sudden 
 assault, started, and tried to speak. But George went 
 on, with simple, quaint gravity, 
 
 " No : it is my turn now. Come here and sit 
 down. As I said before, I want a partner. Now 
 we re going to talk it over. You re all wrong, Will. 
 If you had seen the letter I burned, you would know 
 that Jenny Lockhart was true as steel to you. She 
 told me in that letter what you had not let me 
 know. She begged me to be your friend always, as 
 I had been hers. I I d rather not talk about that 
 night. It s all past now, you know," said George, 
 
38 CAMP AND CA13IN. 
 
 with a tremor of his voice. Will did not perceive it: 
 he was too much absorbed in the effect of the dis 
 covery upon his own feelings. 
 
 " Then you didn t love her, after all ! " he cried : 
 " you were only her cousin and friend ! " 
 
 There was a moment s silence ; and then George 
 answered, like an echo from afar, "Yes, her cousin 
 and friend." 
 
 " But you burned up her letters ? " pursued the 
 young man, so eagerly following the clew of the 
 riddle that seemed to hold his happiness as to forget 
 entirely for the moment his recent attitude of con 
 fessed culprit. " And you kept one? " 
 
 Thanksgiving Joe, with slow and steady hand, un 
 buckled his belt, took from it the folded paper, 
 opened it, and handed it to him, saying, without 
 further explanation, "We ll burn that too." 
 
 Will read, bewildered, the words which seemed so 
 far from being the shrine of any special secret. 
 " Let us come before his presence with Thanksgiv 
 ing. There is nothing in that ! " 
 
 Thanksgiving Joe silently stretched out his hand, 
 took back the paper, replaced it in his belt, and, with 
 a simplicity that was more baffling than diplomacy, 
 resumed the thread of his discourse. " As I was 
 saying, I want a partner. To-morrow morning you ll 
 write to Jenny; and we two will go to work in 
 earnest. It won t be long before you can go back to 
 her. We are wiser than we were. It isn t worth 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 39 
 
 while to spend a lifetime trying to get ready to begin. 
 Jenny don t want you to be rich. She said so in 
 in that letter. When we get a good mine, you can 
 go home, and leave me to work it. I am better off 
 out here : I ve got used to the country. I mean to 
 live and die out here somewhere. And if you and 
 Jenny will write to me why, I won t burn your 
 letters any more." 
 
 This pleasantry had a mournful tone that would 
 have revealed to any disinterested observer the sorrow 
 that lurked beneath. But Will s thoughts were miles 
 away; and, when he recalled them, it was only for 
 self-reproach. He lamented gloomily his un worthi 
 ness, and declared, that, though heaven now opened 
 before him, he dared not set his foot upon the thresh 
 old. "No, George," he said, "I owe the rest of my 
 life to you. If we could go back together but what 
 folly ! Here w r e sit, as poor as your old Mammoth 
 vein there, and dream of happiness. I have earned 
 and squandered money enough in these tw r o years 
 past to make our dreams come true; but now I must 
 reap what I have sown. It was almost better to be 
 lieve her false." 
 
 He rose gloomily as he spoke, and George did not 
 detain him. His morbid mind could not be all at 
 once restored to health. It was better to let him be 
 alone for a while, and realize his new position. So 
 George rose also, and the two men clasped hands for 
 a brief farewell. An instant they stood thus, and 
 
40 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 then, by a common impulse, kissed each other. Ifc 
 was the pledge of reconciliation and hope. The 
 terms of their relation seemed to be settled by it ; for 
 they parted with an air of familiarity, and with no 
 more formal words than, " Well, good-night, old fel 
 low. Take care of yourself. See you in the morn 
 ing." Whereat Thanksgiving Joe went straightway 
 into his cabin, and Will Hazard took the path down 
 the canon. The former, exhausted by the interview, 
 but at peace with himself, rolled into his bunk, and 
 soon slept soundly ; but the latter stopped half way 
 down the hill, seated himself on a rock, and gave 
 himself up to wakeful meditation. 
 
 All this time the governor s proclamation of 
 Thanksgiving had lain unnoticed where it had fallen 
 from Joe s hands. The fire had burned nearly out; 
 but a few coals remained, to brighten occasionally as 
 a puff of the night-wind touched them. At every 
 puff, moreover, the newspaper with the governor s 
 proclamation hitched a little nearer to the fire. Be 
 tween times it paused, or seemed to retreat ; then, by 
 rolling over, and sliding swiftly forward, it made up 
 every loss of ground. It seemed to be alive, and 
 hesitating, while it advanced, to carry out some plan 
 of mischief. At last, with a leap of undisguised in 
 tent, it fell upon the embers, swept across them, 
 bursting into flame as it did so, and, flying over the 
 short intervening space, clung like a fiery monster to 
 the dry, resinous pinon-stems of the cabin, within 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 41 
 
 which, unconscious of his peril, lay Thanksgiving 
 Joe. 
 
 A moment later Will Hazard was aware of a lurid 
 light that threw his own shadow in front of him, and, 
 starting from his revery, turned to see wrapped in 
 flames the cabin he had recently left. His trumpet- 
 call of "Fire! " brought the miners from their work 
 or sleep ; and a dozen men were soon hastening up 
 the hillside. But Will had the start of them by a 
 long ascent; and with flying feet he sped to the 
 cabin, shouting as he bounded up the rocky steep. 
 
 Thanksgiving Joe was dreaming of a quiet Jersey 
 village-church, and a sweet face therein, when he was 
 aroused by the shouts, and sprang up bewildered to 
 find himself surrounded with smoke and flame. A 
 step through the scorching circle would have placed 
 him in safety; but alas! in his confusion he rushed 
 in the wrong direction, and, instead of escaping by 
 the door in front, stumbled over the pile of rock and 
 ore at the rear of his cabin, and fell headlong into 
 the shaft of the Mammoth. A second after, Will 
 Hazard leaped through the blazing ruins, calling his 
 friend s name. The bed, the room, were empty; 
 but a feeble voice replied from the depths to his 
 frantic call, and by the light of the burning cabin 
 he saw Thanksgiving Joe lying helpless, twelve feet 
 below him, at the bottom of the shaft. 
 
 The first miners that arrived met Will carrying in 
 his arms a heavy burden, the body of his friend. 
 
42 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 Thanksgiving Joe (by this name he was best known 
 to them and to us) had fainted away. Tenderly they 
 carried him to the nearest cabin, and applied their 
 simple means of restoration. But for hours they 
 could not bring him back to consciousness. 
 
 It was during this period that Sam Wetherill, who 
 had been foremost in service by the bunk of the 
 sufferer, stepped to where Will Hazard sat in a stupor 
 of grief, touched him on the shoulder, and beckoned 
 him to follow. lie was obeyed, and presently the 
 two men stood together in the open air. The dawn 
 was breaking. 
 
 " Look here ! " said Sam quietly. " This yer busi 
 ness has got to be explored. I was at Joe s cabin 
 last night, and I know he was expectin you. If 
 you ve got any remarks to make, you might as well 
 make em to me -unless you prefer a committee." 
 
 This allusion to lynch law did not move the nerves 
 of the pale young man, whose reputation as a des 
 perado seemed now likely to put him in peril. 
 
 "If George Graham dies," said he, "I shall not 
 want to live." 
 
 Sam turned, with a quick revulsion of feeling. 
 
 "You knowed him? you loved him?" said he. 
 "He was the best man in the sage-brush. Thar 
 warn t no discount on him." He warn t no slouch. 
 He was a man Give us your hand!" And the 
 discovery of a big burn, hitherto unheeded, on AVill 
 Hazard s hand, furnished final testimony to his sin 
 cere efforts for the rescue of Thanksgiving Joe. 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 43 
 
 At tliis moment occurred another incident, for the 
 preliminary explanation of which a few words are 
 required. 
 
 Redhead Pete, it will be remembered, has gone on 
 one of his periodical hunts after the Lost Silver Mine. 
 For many days, nothing has been heard from him. 
 But now, in the cold, first light of the morning, he 
 comes over the summit, ragged, hirsute, defeated, but 
 not conquered. Once more his quest has failed, yet 
 the hope which inspired it springs eternal in his 
 heart. 
 
 He pauses at the sight of the smoldering ruins of 
 Joe s cabin. No one is near to explain the mystery. 
 Pete walks to the edge of the shaft, among the smok 
 ing brands, and reflectively turns over with his booted 
 foot the blackened fragments of Joe s pile of worth 
 less ore. "This yer base metal," he mutters but 
 suddenly he stoops, seizes a stone, rubs it up and 
 down on his buckskin breeches to clean its surface, 
 and eagerly examines a dozen little whitish pellets 
 that seem to be clinging to it like drops of perspira 
 tion. As a final test, he takes out his jack-knife, 
 and cuts into one of them. It is pure silver ! 
 
 Pete is no fool. His credulity towards Shoshones 
 and their legends does not prevent him now from be 
 having like a wise and prudent man. He walks to 
 the end of Joe s claim on the Mammoth, and there 
 erects one of the half-burnt poles of the cabin, on 
 which he rudt ly carves the words, "Ex. No. 1, South, 
 
44 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 Peter Jackson." Then, and not before, he comes 
 down into the quiet, solemn camp, leaping from rock 
 to rock, with hair and arms flying abroad, and whoop 
 ing and shouting: 
 
 " Whar s Thanksgiving Joe? Whar is he? That 
 thar ledge o his n s the clear bullion : the ore only 
 wants to be burnt, n the silver jest biles out of it" 
 
 And so, bestowing on the air and on the distant 
 ears of men his reckless and fragmentary explana 
 tions, he rushes dowitward to the spot where Sam 
 and Will are standing. Their sad faces hush him at 
 once. But Thanksgiving Joe, lying until now uncon 
 scious within the cabin, has been roused by the shouts, 
 has recognized his name, has opened his eyes, and 
 looked around upon the sorrowful company, as for 
 some missing face. Divining his mute request, the 
 colonel steps to the door, and calls in the three who 
 stand outside. As they enter, Joe looks inquiringly 
 upon them. Sam takes his hand. 
 
 " All right, old man ! " says Sam. " You jest shake 
 yerself, 11 you ll git over this. Thr.r s good news at 
 last. That thar Mammoth Ledge, as we all thought 
 was base metal, was jest nothin but this yer roastin 
 ore, like what they tell of up to Austin, base metal 
 ef you try to work it wet, n putty nigh the clear 
 spoon metal if you jest warm it up with fire afore- 
 hand." 
 
 Candor compels me to state that several of the 
 sympathetic audience glide quietly from the room 
 
THANKSGIVING JOE. 45 
 
 during these brief remarks, and, on getting outside 
 the house, begin a fierce race to the Mammoth claim, 
 a proceeding which Redhead Pete, secure in the 
 possession of Extension No. 1, South, regards with 
 quiet amusement. 
 
 Thanksgiving Joe listens intelligently. " Thank 
 God ! " his faint voice murmurs, breaking into the 
 familiar ascription for the last time. Then, gather 
 ing his strength, he says with an effort, but dis 
 tinctly, 
 
 " Gentlemen, my name is George Graham. This 
 man, William Hazard, is my dear friend and partner. 
 He is half-owner in the Mammoth claim; and the 
 half-interest that belongs to me I hereby give 
 and bequeath to him in trust for Miss Janet 
 Lockhart he knows. Sam, you will see the papers 
 straight ? " 
 
 Sam nods. " Whatever you say, Joe, is better n 
 law in this camp. There s nobody here that ll go 
 back on your words." 
 
 A murmur of subdued assent runs round the room. 
 Will Hazard falls on his knees by the bunk, and 
 buries his face in the blanket. Thanksgiving Joe, 
 still holding Sam Wetherill s hand in one of his own, 
 lays the other upon Will s clustering hair. 
 
 " Give her my love, Will," he says, and closes his 
 eyes for several minutes. The stillness is broken 
 only by sobs from the kneeling figure of Hazard. 
 At last the dying man looks up once more. 
 
46 
 
 CAMP AND CAKLV. 
 
 "My belt," he says. They had taken it off \vhon 
 they were hunting upon his body for the injuries, 
 which, being, alas! internal, could neither be found 
 nor cured. Now they bring it to him, and once more 
 his fingers feebly seek the precious paper which it 
 contains. He draws it forth, reads with fading sight 
 the well-known lines. A wave of peace glides over 
 his face, an expression of unutterable gratitude. 
 Soundlessly his lips form the solemn " Amen." The 
 hand falls lifeless Joe lias obeyed the summons of 
 the Almighty Father, and entered into his presence 
 with thanksgiving. 
 
AGAMEMNON: 
 A STORY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 I. 
 
 YOUNG BULLION. 
 
 OT? You bet it s hot! A cool one hundred 
 and fifteen in the shade ! " So Stephen 
 Moore, the stage-driver, paradoxically de 
 scribed the weather, while he watered his 
 horses from a rather slimy-looking spring by a soli 
 tary cabin among the foot-hills. Before him were 
 barren reaches of dusty white ascending road, their 
 ridges dotted with black spots of scrub-oak, then be 
 yond all the blue line of the High Sierra. Behind 
 him the great plain of California, or rather that por 
 tion of it which lies around and south of Tulare Lake, 
 shimmered in the heat, and sent up little dust whirl 
 winds that traveled hither and thither over its glow 
 ing surface like slender pillars of cloud. In a few 
 years the desert would blossom, and miles upon miles 
 
 47 
 
48 % CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 of golden harvest would wave where now the vrild oats 
 and grasses, early browned by sultry summer, only 
 mimicked the husbandry of man. A little later the 
 locomotive would shoot and toot through these spa 
 cious solitudes. But that time was not yet; and as it 
 is said to be darkest just before daybreak, so it seemed 
 most lonely in the land just before it was going to 
 become most "lively." 
 
 " Yes, sir" said Stephen, "one hundred and fifteen, 
 if it s an inch! But you don t feel the heat here as 
 you do in the States. Why, ninety on Broadway just 
 knocks the people over right and left with sunstrokes. 
 But there s Young Bullion there, a-sleeping on the 
 coach, with his hat off, and his face to the sun, and 
 not taking any harm, either." 
 
 Stephen s remarks were addressed to the passenger 
 who shared with him the driver s seat, a young man 
 of whose personal appearance at that moment little 
 can be said, since, like everybody else who had trav 
 eled that day along the valley road, with the wind 
 dead in the rear, he was so covered with dust as to be 
 all of one color from head to foot, except where his 
 eyes peeped out under their dusty lashes, like clean 
 children at the window of an adobe cabin. It is not 
 necessary to say much concerning this young man. 
 He has little to . do with the story, except to tell it ; 
 for the truth must out. It was the present narrator 
 who sat as aforesaid on the clay above mentioned, 
 while Stephen watered the horses, and Young Bullion 
 
AGAMEMNON. 4ft 
 
 slept sprawling on the top of the coach. Having 
 confessed so much, it is hardly worth while to keep 
 the traveler who tells this story in the chilly and 
 unconfidential position of a third person any longer: 
 and he will therefore, with the reader s permission, 
 speak of himself, as folks usually do, in the first 
 t person. 
 
 I was going up into the mountains to visit a newly- 
 discovered mining-district when Stephen first called 
 my attention to Young Bullion, as narrated above. I 
 had not noticed him before; but this was easily ex 
 plained by the fact that I had only just got a chance 
 to ride outside, the seat having been occupied from 
 Stockton by an exasperating old cattle-breeder, who 
 never wanted to change places with an inside passen 
 ger. Heat, dust, night, sleep, wind, whatever usu 
 ally disposes the outsider to make such a temporary 
 exchange, had no effect upon him. But at last we 
 came to a ranche where the cattle-breeder alighted 
 for good, leaving my friend Stephen free to offer the 
 seat by his side to me, whom he called "Professor," 
 because I was going up to inspect mines. In the 
 Middle West it is "Judge" or "Kernel:" in the Far 
 West " Professor " has been added to the list of handy 
 titles for strangers. 
 
 Stephen and I w r ere not strangers, however. We 
 had made many a trip together on the Wells-Fargo 
 coaches in California, Oregon, and Nevada; and once 
 we had started for a real vacation-spree, gone through 
 
50 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 the Yosomite, the Hetch-Hetchy, up to the headwaters 
 of the Tuolumne, and so on through the High Sierra, 
 away to the mighty canons of Kern and King Rivers, 
 camping on the bare ground at night, wherever we 
 could find water and grass for our horses. So we had 
 plenty to talk about now that we had met again; 
 and, when I climbed to my place by his side, I paid 
 no attention to the form that lay stretched on the still 
 higher seat, behind the, driver s. 
 
 But at the next stopping-place, as I have already 
 remarked, Stephen mentioned the sleeping passenger 
 as "Young Bullion; " and this caused me to turn and 
 inspect him. He was so short, that he lay at full- 
 length upon the seat, without hanging over his feet, or 
 doubling up his legs, as experience had taught me I 
 must needs do when I tried to sleep in that situation. 
 The freckled face, light yellow hair, and brown 
 stubby hand, presented nothing extraordinary. It 
 was evidently a mere boy, exposing his complexion 
 in a way which his mother would have disapproved, 
 had she known he was so emphatically "out." 
 
 "What makes you call him Young Bullion ?" I 
 asked, surveying his coarse, patched clothes, and fail 
 ing to see any special indications of the precious 
 metal about him. 
 
 " Well," replied Stephen, as he swashed the horses 
 legs with the water they had left in the pail, "it s a 
 name the boys gave him, over at Pactolus district, 
 lie discovered the district ; and he owns the best claim 
 
AGAMEMNON. 51 
 
 on the best mine there, the biggest thing on the 
 coast, they say, next to the Comstock." 
 
 As this was a statement which I had heard concern 
 ing a score of mines at different times, I \vas not as 
 deeply thrilled by it as a tyro might have been ; and 
 it was with some indifference that I said, "Ah! 
 what s the name of the mine? " 
 
 "The Agamemnon," said Stephen. "It s named 
 after him. Agamemnon s his real name." 
 
 That did give me a little start; for the Agamemnon 
 mine in Pactolus district was the very property I had 
 been sent from San Francisco to^xamine. But I re 
 flected that many claims might be located side by side 
 on the same lode, and doubtless some other part than 
 that which belonged to this boy had attracted the 
 notice of my clients. At all events, I preserved a 
 due professional reticence as to my own business, and 
 remarked only, " Agamemnon is a queer name. Aga 
 memnon what V " 
 
 By this time the driver was mounting again ; and, 
 before he could answer my question, he had to unwind 
 the reins from the break-bar, arrange them properly 
 in the gloved fingers of his left hand, pick up his 
 long-lashed whip from the top of the coach, then take 
 off the break, and tell the horses pithily to " Git ! " 
 These operations were scarcely completed, when 
 Young Bullion suddenly sat upright, and replied in 
 person to my inquiry, which he must have overheard. 
 
 " Agamemnon Atrides O Ballyhan," said he, with a 
 
52 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 twinkle in his shrewd gray eyes. " The boys call it 
 Bullion when the old man ain t around. Twouldift 
 suit the old man, you bet! " 
 
 " Who is the old man V your father? " I said. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " he replied gravely. " My son." 
 
 Seeing my look of blank amazement, Stephen in 
 terposed the explanation that this was the jocose way 
 in which the camp chose to consider the relationship. 
 
 "Well," said Agamemnon, "how s a feller to 
 know, except by what folks say? And think I d let 
 the old man play father around my place? He 
 couldn t run the macBine a day." 
 
 " I was somewhat displeased by this disrespectful 
 tone; but I let it pass without comment, partly be 
 cause the atmosphere w r as not favorable to lectures en 
 filial piety, and partly because I was following in my 
 mind a suggested coincidence. To make myself cer 
 tain, I took out my note-book, and sought the address 
 of the party to whom I was to apply for permission 
 to inspect the Agamemnon mine. It was, as I had 
 supposed, Mr. O Ballyhan. Turning +o the boy, who 
 had watched my movements keenly, I said, " I think 
 it must be your father with whom I have some 
 business." 
 
 " Who? The old man? Business? Not much ! If 
 you ve got any business, it s with me: you just rest 
 easy on that! Come up from the Bay to look at tho 
 Agamemnon ledge, now, hain t you? Well, I m your 
 man! Oh! you needn t go for to doubt my word. 
 
AGAMEMNON. 53 
 
 I m the only fust-class, responsible, business O Bally- 
 lian on the Pacific coast. Bet ye what ye like. 
 Put up yer money, 11 leave it to Steve. No, I won t ! 
 Don t bet ; swore off. Never did, very heavy, any 
 how. But Steve there, he ll tell yer it s all right. 
 Go in, Steve ! If he won t believe yer, bet with him 
 yerself, n leave it to the first bullwhacker ye meet." 
 
 But I was ready to accept Steve s assurance that 
 this premature young adventurer was actually the 
 mine-owner with whom my clients were negotiating. 
 A very little further conversation soon put this point 
 beyond the shadow of a doubt. 
 
 " You ve been pretty lively," said he. " Thought 
 I d be one coach ahead o ye, and git a chance to 
 open up the mine a little. But I had to stop over at 
 Stockton to buy some powder and steel. Got a new 
 kind o powder, this yer giant powder : made the 
 feller show me how to use it. We went out o town 
 half a mile, an couldn t find no rocks : so we blowed a 
 scrub-oak all to sawdust. That s how I lost a day." 
 
 "Have you been in San Francisco?" I inquired. 
 "It is strange that my friends did not mention it." 
 
 "Think I d let em know I was there?" he replied 
 with a w y ink. " I ll tell ye jest what I did : went 
 down to Stockton with twelve mules an a big load o 
 fust-class Agamemnon ore, this yer black sulphuret, 
 free gold sprinkled all through it, an put it in the 
 fire, an the silver sw 7 eats out to boot, sent it down 
 from Stockton by boat, an sot on the bags myself, 
 
54 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 you bet, all the way, with a six-shooter in my pocket. 
 Soon s I d got it down thar all safe, n locked up in a 
 warehouse, I went off to git some dinner. When the 
 waiter fetched the pork n beans, I kind o liked his 
 looks; n says I, I want a agent for a little bit o 
 business here in town, n I guess you re my man. 
 lie laughed at fust ; thought I was fool n him, or 
 else was a fool myself. But I fixed that quick 
 enough. Says I, Now don t go for to think you 
 can take me in because I m small. Ye can t come 
 110 tricks over me. I ve got fifteen tons o fust-class 
 Agamemnon ore to sell, all picked and sacked. Here s 
 a fair sample, n there s plenty more whar that came 
 from. If you want to sell it for me, n earn a hun 
 dred dollars easy, say so. 
 
 "Well, his eyes stuck out so when he see my sam 
 ple, that he looked half scared to death. But he was 
 glad enough to be my agent. He was a big swell 
 when he was dressed up, n he could make a power- 
 fid impression, only not on me. I ain t what I was, 
 says he, while we was a-talkin : I ve seen better 
 days. Now you jest come down, says I: I don t 
 want no more o that! Git enough f m in old man. 
 As for you, ye re putty nigh what ye always was n 
 always will be, n y hain t seen no better day n this 
 one 11 be, if ye behave yerself. 
 
 " Young man/ says he, you ought to be respeck- 
 fnl to yer elders. 
 
 " Elders ! says I, hollerin like mad, who d ye 
 
AGAMEMNON. 55 
 
 call elders? I was born in the year one, n I m eigh 
 teen hundred n sixty-five years old, A.D., U.S. : d ye 
 hear that? Then I laid my six-shooter alongside o 
 my plate ; n says I, I ll be obliged to you if you ll 
 call me Mr. O Ballyhan. 
 
 " Well, that s the way I got my agent. He was 
 the politest feller, after that, you ever see. When 
 he went round to a big house in Market Street, 
 where they was a-buyin ores to send to Europe, me 
 n my six-shooter just went along. *No shenanni- 
 gan, James/ says I. We ll just wait on the door 
 step, n protect ye when ye come out. Well, after a 
 few minutes he comes out, n says, If the rest o the 
 lot is like the sample, they ll give a thousand dollars 
 a ton for it. Not much, says I : they ll have it 
 assayed, and they ll make a bid accordin , that s what 
 they ll do. An that s what they did do, n gimme 
 twenty thousand dollars for that lot of ore, rather n 
 lemme go. Wouldn t a sold it for that, either, only 
 they began to talk about the mine, n said they d 
 probably like to buy her. When my agent told me 
 that, I says, Well, I hain t no partic lar objection. 
 She s a good mine, n I wouldn t retire from her for 
 less n a hundred thousand dollars. If they wan t her 
 at that price, they can take her or they can leave 
 her. An if you sell her, James, says I, you ll get a 
 thousand on top o your hundred. Well, there was 
 big talk an lots of it for a couple o days; but I kept 
 quiet n out o sight, n James he negotiated till you 
 
56 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 couldn t rest. Fust thing they wanted was a report, 
 Sent em one that the old man wrote and printed in 
 < The Pactolus Weekly Nozzle/ The old man is hefty 
 on a report : he jist slings the ink, now, I tell ye ! 
 About all he kin do." 
 
 I remarked that I had seen the report. It was 
 indeed an extraordinary sample, even of that extraor 
 dinary kind of literature. It abounded in gorgeous 
 descriptions of the beauty of the natural scenery, the 
 immense display of geological phenomena, the un 
 limited amount of " yet undiscovered " treasure slum 
 bering beneath the rocky surface, the salubrious cli 
 mate, the exactly central geographical position (proved 
 by drawing a circle round it on any map), and the 
 metropolitan future, of Pactolus district. I remem 
 bered particularly the glowing conclusion : " The 
 Gulch, to the golden sands of which this marvelous 
 region owes its name, has long ceased to yield a suita 
 ble auriferous return to the honest hand of labor. 
 [Note by the editor of The Weekly Nozzle : " " But 
 it will pay big to hydraulic."] But in the gold and 
 silver veins which lie along certain magnetic lines in 
 the rocks there are treasures surpassing those of the 
 Lydian River, and which will be, in the words of the 
 great Thucydides, Ktema es aei, a thing forever." 
 
 Agamemnon continued, " They said that report 
 wa n t enough : so I sent word to em to send up their 
 own man; n I expect you re the feller." 
 
 I replied that I was the feller. 
 
AGAMEMNON. 57 
 
 " Thought so the minute I laid eyes on yer. Well, 
 now, we ll jest licv a few plain words about this busi 
 ness, 11 perhaps they ll save you the trouble o goiu 
 any farther. S pose yer know I ve got to pay yer fee. 
 Left the money in bank down t the Bay." 
 
 I nodded assent. 
 
 " S pose y expect I ll give something ex try if you 
 make a good report, n the mine gets sold hey? " 
 
 "Well," I said gravely, "it would be reasonable, 
 wouldn t it ? " 
 
 " treasonable ? " said he, with a steady light in his 
 gray eyes, as he turned, and looked me full in the 
 face. "I don t know about that. But it s jest impos 
 sible d ye hear that ? You can go back to Frisco, 
 unless yer want to examine somebody else s mine : 
 yer can t git into the Agamemnon. There s goin to 
 be fair play with her, or nothin ." And with that he 
 turned iiis back to me. 
 
 After an embarrassing silence, I said, "But, Mr. 
 O Ballyhan, you made the offer, didn t you ? " 
 
 " Wanted to find ye out, n I found ye out," he 
 replied curtly, without deigning to look at me. 
 
 "Well," I rejoined, " I wanted to find you out, and 
 I ve found you out. I m very glad you regard it as 
 dishonorable to give a bribe. If you had really 
 tendered me one, I should have reported it to my 
 clients, and advised them to drop the business." 
 
 " Too thin ! " was Agamemnon s sole reply ; and I 
 saw on Steve s face a grin of intense amusement at 
 my discomfiture. 
 
58 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 " Look here ! " said T as a last resort, " I ll leave ifc 
 to Steve, lie knows rne ; and he ll tell you that J am 
 an honest man." 
 
 Steve could hardly resist the temptation to make 
 matters worse by a dubious ans\ver ; but, seeing in 
 my face that the trouble might be serious, he changed 
 his tone, and gave to his remarks a satisfactory end. 
 
 " Well," he said slowly, " I don t know : it s my 
 impression that he stole my last pipeful of Lone Jack, 
 and smoked it himself in camp on the Tuolunme; 
 and a man that would do that hey, boys? No: 
 he s all right, Young Bullion : he ll do the square 
 thing by you. I know him." 
 
 Young Bullion turned, and held out his hand. 
 " Put it there ! " he said. And I " put it there," shak 
 ing hands with him in token of good faith. " Yer 
 see," he continued presently, u th ole man ll try it on. 
 He s a disgrace to the family, he is. Don t you take 
 nothin I mean no promises (he hain t got nothin 
 else to give you) from th ole man. I m try in* to 
 reform him, I am : swore oft lots c things on his 
 account ( n for some other partic lar reasons). But 
 soon s any stranger comes around, th ole man slumps 
 back agin into th ole ways, goes to gamblin an 
 drinkin . Ever play poker? " 
 
 I said I had no knowledge of that accomplishment. 
 
 "Well, I can play it with any man in Pactolus, or 
 anyw r here else. Th ole man taught me himself. 
 But I swore off f m gamblin, n I got all the boys to 
 
AGAMEMNON. 59 
 
 say they won t play with th olc man : so he nad to 
 shut up. They wa n t very sorry to promise : lie used 
 to clean em out every time. But it wasn t the 
 square thing; n I I the name o the O Ballyhans 
 is goin to be kept "clean after this, by !" Was I 
 mistaken, or did I see this premature young person 
 dash a tear from his eye? Instantly I heard him 
 mutter, " Thar, now, I ve swore off swearin , n jist 
 been n almost done it again ! " 
 
 I need hardly say that by this time I was much 
 interested in the strange character here presented 
 for study. With mingled curiosity and respect I set 
 myself to win his confidence, and extract an outline 
 of his history. In spite of all his preternatural 
 shrewdness and coolness, I found that he was at 
 heart a boy, and required only the touch of sympathy 
 and appreciation to make him talk freely. For more 
 than an hour he ran on, with a queer mixture of 
 simplicity and acuteness, narrating the experiences 
 of an uneventful and yet heroic life; while Stephen 
 and I listened without comment, except that the stage- 
 driver nodded occasionally in confirmation of some 
 statements that came within his own knowledge, or 
 touched up his leaders with crackling emphasis when 
 his feelings were particularly aroused. 
 
CO CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 II. 
 
 FURTHER ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 I LEARNED that Agamemnon Atrides O Ballyhan 
 owed his classical name to the fancy of his father, 
 a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and a careless, 
 jolly spendthrift, who, after running through his own 
 inheritance and a small fortune brought him by his 
 wife, had taken sudden leave of his creditors, and 
 come to California in the early days, after the dis 
 covery of gold. Plis scraps of classical and mathe 
 matical learning found no market here. He had no 
 solid attainments, no capacity for work, and no con 
 science : so, without much resistance, he yielded to 
 the downward current, and became a gambler, per 
 haps worse. He was not fit to be an honest gambler, 
 if I may use the paradox ; that is to say, he could 
 not rely upon skill and coolness to guarantee him a 
 living in that profession, without resort to cheating , 
 for he speedily became a drunkard also; and no suc 
 cessful gambler can afford to indulge that vice. The 
 result was inevitable, a vagabond life, interspersed 
 with scenes of exposure and disgrace. From one 
 mining-camp to another he dragged his wife and the 
 young Agamemnon, who, born in the midst of these 
 debasing associations, grew up to a premature knowl 
 edge of evil, and an utter ignorance of any higher 
 
AGAMEMNON. 61 
 
 code of ethics than the rude life of the minors 
 illustrated. 
 
 Young Bullion was not explicit concerning these 
 darker features of his experience. He seemed to 
 avoid details with a sense of shame ; and I fancied 
 that the shame was of recent origin, that something 
 had lately aroused him to a perception of the disgrace, 
 and to an odd resolution, not at all like the usual 
 repentance of awakened sinners, to clean the name of 
 the O Ballyhans. What this cause was I could not 
 gather.. He was silent on that point. But, whatever 
 it was, it had made a man of him before his time. 
 He was sixteen years old, though he looked both 
 older and. younger. He showed no trace of Irish 
 origin in his talk, w r hich differed from the mixed 
 lingo of the Pacific coast, only in a freedom from 
 coarseness and profanity which evidently cost him 
 some effort. I inferred that this also was a recent 
 change, dating from the time when he had "swore 
 off " from gambling and drinking, and had put his 
 father in the strait- jacket of filial discipline. Of his 
 mother he spoke with a queer, kindly indifference, 
 saying that she "wasn t much account," had no " sa- 
 vey;"but "th ole man s goin s-on had been rough 
 on her." He regarded his father as an "enfant terri 
 ble," an unwelcome responsibility, the management 
 of whom, nevertheless, gave him a certain sense of 
 pleasure in his own skill. "TV ole man s sharp," 
 he said ; " but he ain t no match for me ! " 
 
62 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 A year before this, the O Ballyhans, with slender 
 stock of household goods, had emigrated to Pactolus 
 Gulch. It was not a promising field. The placer 
 diggings were nearly exhausted, and the population 
 had nearly all departed. But there was business 
 enough still (there always is) for one liquor-saloon ; 
 and in this establishment the elder O Ballyhan be 
 came barkeeper. His taste for whiskey would have 
 made him an unprofitable servant ; but his dexterity 
 with cards made him useful to the proprietor, who 
 pitted him against all comers in the fashionable 
 operation of "playing for the drinks." Now that 
 the claims in the Gulch paid so poorly, and dust was 
 not plenty, the gambling of the Pactolus people sel 
 dom went beyond these modest stakes ; and as O Bal 
 lyhan was allowed to drink only what he could earn 
 in this way, why, the more he drank, the better for 
 the business. 
 
 Meanwhile the boy, so far as T could make out, 
 had turned his hand to whatever he could find in the 
 way of occasional occupation. He had been a super 
 numerary hostler to the stage; he had worked a while 
 in a played-out placer-claim; he had caught trout in 
 the North Fork, above the place where the tailings 
 made it too muddy even for a sucker or an eel ; he 
 had hunted quails, rabbits, and gophers, and some 
 times deer ; once he had shot a grizzly bear. 
 
 When he mentioned that experience, I interrupted 
 him to ask for further particulars. " How did I do 
 
AGAMEMNON. 63 
 
 it? " said he. " I jist walked up within twenty yards 
 of him, n shot him in the mouth. He rolled over 
 quiet enough. Yer see, I had Jim Knowles s repeat- 
 in rifle. A grizzly ain t nothin if yer have a repeatin 
 rifle, n keep cool. T that shot hadn t fetched him, 
 there was seven more ready for him ; n there never 
 was a grizzly that could s waller seven ounce-balls at 
 one mouthful." 
 
 With the precarious proceeds of these industries, 
 he had (as I managed to make him own) kept his 
 mother from starvation ; and his quick wits and ready 
 helpfulness had evidently moved all the Pactolians 
 to admiration and friendship. He hfid never taken 
 much to book-learning, having rebelled entirely at a 
 languid attempt of the old man to educate him. 
 " Educate ! " said he contemptuously, as he told us 
 about it : " didn t want none o his kind. Two fellers 
 in one family slingin Latin, n puttin on the heavy 
 genteel, d a been too much gravy for the meat." 
 But I gathered that there was a school now at Pacto- 
 lus of which he had a very high opinion. 
 
 " Do you go ? " I asked, forgetting, for the moment, 
 that he was a capitalist, and man of business. 
 
 " No," he replied gloomily : " hain t got time. But 
 I walk over there afternoons to see the teacher." 
 
 u ls he a very good teacher? " 
 
 " It s a lady," he said shortly, and changed the 
 subject, proceeding to tell of the great discovery 
 which had in six months brought fresh life to Pac- 
 
64 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 tolus district, and changed the fate of more than one 
 of its inhabitants ; namely, the discovery of the Aga 
 memnon lode, and the inauguration thereby of a new 
 era of prosperous activity. 
 
 It was the old story, repeated in so many districts 
 on the Pacific coast in early days. Young Bullion 
 had found the outcrop of the lode far above the head 
 of the Gulch, and had pounded up a sack-full of the 
 strange, dark ore, and " panned " it in vain for gold. 
 Disappointed but curious, he had carried a specimen 
 of it to the saloon, and passed, it around among the 
 loungers who sat sociably about the red-hot stove. 
 They could mike nothing of it. But O Ballyhan, 
 senior, who was mellow .with a day s professional 
 work, had got possession of it, and with drunken elo 
 quence pronounced it to be lapis philosophorum, the 
 philosopher s stone (" with a lot of other Latin," 
 added Agamemnon), and finally, seizing the poker 
 for a wand, had opened the door of the stove, tossed 
 the specimen into the blazing fire, and declared him 
 self to be an alchemist engaged in the manufacture 
 of aurum potabile. This, at least, is my version of it, 
 based on Young Bullion s attempt to repeat the jar 
 gon of his drunken dad. True, the ancient alchemist 
 did not make aurum potabile in the fire, but over it; 
 not by fusion, but by solution ; but O Ballyhan was 
 drunk, and so may have departed from the prescrip 
 tion. Nobody cared for his vagaries. Only his son, 
 when tho others had departed, raked over the embers 
 
AGAMEMNON. C5 
 
 to recover his specimen, and found it studded with 
 globules of exuded silver. 
 
 lie was too shrewd to make immediate outcry over 
 the discovery. For several days he kept it to him 
 self, while he meditated thoroughly his plan of pro 
 cedure. Then, taking into his counsel a miner who 
 had had some experience in "quartz," he arranged a 
 programme, which was carried out to the letter. A 
 meeting of citizens was held ; the startling announce 
 ment of the existence of silver veins in the neigh 
 borhood was proclaimed ; and a code of laws was 
 proposed. The assembly, being fiercely eager to 
 adjourn and go " prospecting," passed the laws in a 
 hurry ; and the first location recorded was the Aga 
 memnon. A week later, every chunk or bowlder of 
 rock, in place or out of place, streaked, spotted, black, 
 or white, that showed itself on that mountain-slope, 
 had been " discovered," named, and recorded. A fine 
 crop of litigation and pistol-shooting about disputed 
 titles had been planted. But the title to the Aga 
 memnon no one disputed: its discoverer was the 
 benefactor of the district. The saloon-keeper, deeply 
 impressed by the incident of the stove, advanced five 
 hundred dollars for a fractional interest in the claim ; 
 and with this money Young Bullion began operations. 
 But, foreseeing that it would not last long, he called 
 the miners together, and proposed, that, instead of 
 wasting their labor each on his own mine, they should 
 unite to open the Agamemnon to a considerable, 
 
6G CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 depth, extract a lot of ore, send it to the Bay, and 
 sell it for the benefit of all parties. This they had 
 done with unexpected success ; and Young Bullion 
 had been able to send by express from San Francisco 
 a good round sum for each of them, besides opening 
 the negotiation far the sale of his mine. Meanwhile 
 the news had spread, and the tide of population had 
 turned again to flood. Empty houses were inhabited 
 once more; the hotel was re-opened; The Weekly 
 Nozzle " (christened in honor of a now defunct 
 hydraulic scheme) began to play again, and talked 
 of expanding into a daily under the title of "The 
 Morning Blast ; " and the schoolhouse had once more 
 a teacher. 
 
 Listening to Agamemnon s story made the time 
 pass rapidly ; and, before we were aware, we were 
 at the next station, where the horses were to be 
 changed, and the passengers fed. 
 
 I do not know why I have omitted to mention that 
 the stage was w r ell filled inside, but that the pas 
 sengers were not a particularly interesting company, 
 with the exception of one, a singularly intelligent 
 and refined-looking young woman, w T ho had joined us 
 at the last station before that at which I went out 
 side. A new-comer al\vays has a great advantage in 
 such circumstances. Even an ordinary woman, if 
 neatly dressed, and spotless as to collar and cuffs, 
 seems almost a saint or an angel by comparison with 
 a thoroughly dusty load of travel-worn sufferers. 
 
AGAMEMNON. 67 
 
 But this- lady was not an ordinary person. There 
 was a what s the use of trying to describe her ? I 
 will at least postpone the desperate task; and per 
 haps the progress of my story may make it unneces 
 sary. Suffice it to say here, that an hour s sitting 
 opposite her in the stage had quite filled my mind 
 with a sort of tender curiosity as to her character, 
 her history, and her errand into the rude society of 
 the Sierra. But Young Bullion, with his quaint and 
 vigorous narrative, had driven out her image. 
 
 It returned, however, with fresh force, when we all 
 alighted for dinner, and I hastened gallantly to help 
 her out of the coach, on which occasion, let me say, 
 I observed that her foot and hand were small, while 
 her step and clasp were firm. (There s so much of 
 my description unconsciously done for me, thank 
 goodness !) 
 
 But surely it was not at sight of me that she 
 blushed, and looked confused ? ]^~o : it was at some 
 one behind me, to wit, Young Bullion ; and, upon 
 my word, he was blushing too, unless his complexion 
 deceived me. The next instant my fair unknown 
 (yes, she was fair : put that down in the descrip 
 tion) walked straight up to him, and said in her 
 peculiarly sweet, clear voice (another item). " How 
 do you do, Mr. O Ballyhan ? Have you had a pleas 
 ant journey ? It is quite an unexpected pleasure to 
 meet you here. I have been spending a day or two 
 visiting some friends in the Valley." [This with a 
 
68 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 graceful but indefinite gesture, \vhich might indicate 
 any thing from Los Angeles to Chico.] "We have 
 had a little vacation, to get a new floor put in the 
 schoolhouse." 
 
 It struck me that she seemed a trifle anxious to 
 answer his possible questions before he asked them. 
 If so, she need not have feared embarrassment from 
 any inquisitiveness on his part. In her presence 
 Young Bullion the capitalist. Agamemnon the ruler 
 of men, was merely an awkward boy. It was all he 
 could do to introduce me, at my request. But style 
 was not important under the circumstances; and I 
 was satisfied when I found myself on a footing of 
 agreeable acquaintance with Miss Mary Carleton, the 
 Pactolus school-teacher. 
 
 At the table I managed to improve a good many 
 opportunities in the way of " passing " the potatoes, 
 and such delicacies ; and, as Young Bullion closely 
 watched and eagerly imitated these courtesies, I 
 fancy Miss Mary was waited upon as never before. 
 
 All the company resumed their places at the accus 
 tomed signal ; and the rest of the journey passed 
 quietly enough. Agamemnon apparently did not 
 wish to talk, and, as evening approached, rolled 
 himself up and went to sleep again on the upper 
 seat. The shadows deepened in the canons ; and the 
 red evening-glow slipped upward on the hills, and 
 faded out at last from their summits into the sky, 
 where it lingered yet a while before giving place 
 entirely to the starlight. 
 
AGAMEMNON. 69 
 
 Stephen and I chatted sedately and at intervals, 
 until the spirit of the time charmed us to silence, and 
 \ve smoked our pipes in placid re very. At midnight 
 everybody was aroused ; for with cracking of whip, 
 and barking of dogs, and clattering of hoofs, and 
 rattling of wheels, we drove up to the Pactolus hotel ; 
 and nobody was going any farther. I lodged at the 
 hotel, and saw no more of Young Bullion that night. 
 Tired as I was, I noted, with a slight touch of envy, 
 that he re-entered the stage, for the purpose, as I 
 inferred, of "seeing Miss Mary home." 
 
 Next morning, after breakfast, Agamemnon ap 
 peared, to "talk business." We walked through 
 the single street of the town, along the edge of 
 the irregular excavation which had been Nature s 
 " gulch," and had become man s " diggin s," until 
 the last house was reached. It was the schoolhouse ; 
 and Miss Mary, standing in the doorway, just about 
 to ring the " second bell," waved us a greeting as we 
 passed. (She had a pretty arm, too !) On a little 
 height beyond, we paused, and turned to enjoy the 
 very picturesque prospect of houses and pine-covered 
 hills, great red excavations, busy miners, and rolling 
 foot-hills piled behind and below all 
 
 " That s whar the O Ballyhans live," said my com 
 panion, pointing to the house nearest the schoolhouse, 
 a low, large log-cabin. 
 
 " And where does Miss Carleton live ? " I asked. 
 
 " She boards with us," he replied curtly, and faced 
 about to resume the march. 
 
70 CAMP AND GAVIN. 
 
 The miners of the West have a notion that the 
 richest mines are to be sought in the most inacces 
 sible places. How far this might be recognized, if 
 otherwise stated, as a fact with a scientific reason, 
 I will not stop to explain. At all events, it was true 
 of the Agamemnon, which occupied a very high and 
 very bare mountain-spur of porphyritic rock, belong 
 ing properly to a more eastern belt than the granite 
 and slate of the gulch proper. A lower summit and 
 a heavy belt of pine-timber separated this desert 
 height from the settlement. One might say that the 
 characteristic scenery of two States was here brought 
 close together. Nevada peeped over a gap in the 
 edge of the Sierra into California. 
 
 I began my examination at once, and soon became 
 satisfied that it was indeed a mine of extraordinary 
 value. How this conclusion was reached I do not 
 need to describe here. But it was only after several 
 visits, and many careful samplings and measure 
 ments, that my opinion became definite as well as 
 positive. Even this definite judgment was held in 
 abeyance to await the results of the assays of the 
 samples, to be made at San Francisco. 
 
AGAMEMNON 71 
 
 ITT, 
 
 THE PRODIGAL FATHER. 
 
 Ox this first day \ve spent but a couple of hours in 
 and about the mine, and then returned to town, \vhere 
 I had accepted an invitation to call on the O Bally- 
 hans. It was long past the dinner-hour. We had 
 shared the miners meal at their t4 boarding-house " 
 on the mountain. As we passed the schoolhouse, the 
 hum of reciting voices told that Miss Mary was at 
 work. Presently we entered the rude mansion of 
 Agamemnon s family. 
 
 The door opened directly into a large sitting-room ; 
 and, as Young Bullion pushed it open without cere 
 mony, we surprised the paternal O Ballyhan, sitting 
 before a pine table, and lazily engaged, pipe in mouth, 
 in some sort of solitary game of cards. 
 
 " At it again? " said Agamemnon angrily ; " r n you 
 hain t copied them papers, neither ! " 
 
 " Hem acu tetigisti : bedad ! ye ve touched the thing 
 acutely, Aggy, me boy : et nihil tettr/isti quod nan orna- 
 ris//, an ye niver touched any thing that ye didn t 
 adorn. Come, now, that s rather nate, av ye only 
 understood it." This airy reply was thrown oft , like 
 a soap-bubble from a pipe, with a wave of the hand 
 and an affectation of easy unconcern. Nevertheless, 
 
72 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 the speaker managed with the same gesture to sweep 
 the cards into a drawer ; and it was not difficult to 
 see that the theatrical sire was really in awe of his 
 practical son. 
 
 The latter paid no attention to the classical effusion 
 with which he had been greeted, but continued stern 
 ly, " Been drinkin too. Look here, ole man, this has 
 got to stop. You hear me ! " 
 
 " Vultus est index animi" responded the awful dad : 
 " sure it s me physiognomy betrays me sowi. In vino 
 veritas: I couldn t tell ye a lie, me boy. Ecce signum! 
 there s the bottle ; elieu ! quantum mutatus ab illo ! an 
 divil a bit left in it ! " 
 
 Agamemnon might have proceeded to further in 
 quiry and rebuke; but, suddenly recollecting my pres 
 ence, he dropped, for the time, the process of family 
 discipline, and introduced me as " the quartz-sharp 
 from San Francisco." 
 
 The O Ballyhan rose with exuberant cordiality, 
 and skipped towards me as if I were his partner in a 
 contra-dance. I despair of depicting him. Imagine 
 a grizzly, rummy, bleared visage, surmounted by a 
 shock of bristling gray hair ; a short, fat figure clad 
 in a most dilapidated but once gorgeous, large-fig 
 ured, flowing dressing-gown, which did not pretend 
 to conceal a very dirty shirt ; tight pantaloons of the 
 cut and the pattern that were the rage a score of 
 years ago ; and a pair of slippers that flapped the floor 
 at every stop: in short, a person without the slightest 
 
AGA MENNON. 73 
 
 remaining trace of dandyism. Imagine this being to 
 talk and move with immense affectation of gentle 
 manly style, and you may gain some conception of the 
 O Ballyhan. I ought to add that his hands would 
 have been white if they had been clean, and that his 
 pipe was a common, short black "cuddy." His pro 
 fuse quotations of trite scraps of Latin, usually ac 
 companied by free translations into English with a 
 brogue, added to the bizarre and incongruous effect of 
 his whole appearance. 
 
 " Salce . " he exclaimed : " ye re welcome to the 
 castle o the O Ballyhans. Non sumus quales eramus : 
 we re not ourselves at all since we left our swate 
 ancistral hall, natale solum, so to spake. But ccelum 
 non animum mutant : it s the climate, and not the char 
 t/ether, they change " 
 
 " Qui frans mare currunt, who come to Castle Gar 
 den," said I, finishing his quotation in his own style. 
 
 "Dies fauxtus, cretd notandus I " exclaimed the old 
 scapegrace, with a gesture as if he w^ould embrace 
 me : " it s a blissed day it is, an we ll mark it wid 
 chalk ; that is to say, wid something better. Sure, 
 Aggy, me boy, ye won t grudge yer old father a glass 
 to mark the day. Dale obolum Belisario : there s no 
 use translatin that to ye, ye hard-hearted spalpeen." 
 
 The last part of this speech was delivered in an 
 altered tone, caused by a frown and shake of the head 
 from Agamemnon, who at this point turned to leave 
 the room. " Where s Mother? " said he. 
 
74 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 "In partis inferior thus, it s the back-yard I mane, 
 sittin in the rockin -chair \vid her otium cum digni- 
 tate an a favorite author." 
 
 True enough, as Agamemnon opened a door oppo 
 site to that by -which we had entered, I caught a 
 glimpse of the matron, enjoying the pleasant after 
 noon air in the manner described. Her rocking-chair 
 was the genuine article, city made, and doubtless 
 hauled, with other household belongings, many a 
 weary mile through ono family pilgrimage after 
 another. It bore the scars of age and trouble ; but 
 it was still able to rock, though in a somewhat rick 
 ety way. Mrs. O Ballyhan was maintaining this mo 
 tion by timely application of her toes to the ground, 
 while her eyes were riveted upon a pamphlet, of 
 which I could only see that the cover was yellow. 
 Then the door closed behind Agamemnon, and I was 
 left with the sinful sire. 
 
 " It s a foine boy," he began, " but clane spoilt wid 
 consate, an disrespict o payrints. Sequitur patrem 
 liaud passibus equis he takes after his father, but he 
 can t kape up; and it irritates him. Nori tarn Mi 
 nerva quam Mercurio : it s business he manes, an not 
 learnin . But he wasn t born wid a rale jaynius for 
 business, non nascitur fit, faith that s a nate one too, 
 an it s mesilf 11 show him a thing. Business is 
 it ? Negotium f Si negotium quceris circumspice. Siste 
 viator! Av ye re travelin on business, talk wid the 
 O Ballyhan." 
 
AGAMEMNON. 75 
 
 Here he assumed a significant air, which convinced 
 me that he intended some confidential communica 
 tion. Suspecting at the same time that the tawdry 
 adornments of Latin quotations and misquotations in 
 his discourse were deliberately affected, I said, " Well, 
 Mr. O Ballyhan, if you have any thing to say about 
 the business on which I am traveling, it is my busi 
 ness to hear you. But we shall save time if we 
 confine ourselves to English." 
 
 " Lex loci" said the incorrigible scamp, in a final 
 effort to impose upon me: "it s the custom o the 
 country. These barbarians, damnatl a<l metalla, con- 
 dimned to work in the mines, so to spake, pretind to 
 talk nothin but English, an a voile mess they make 
 o that too. But /YfcVrt est alea in medias res: I ll begin 
 wid the business immajitly, an it s dumb in the dead 
 languages I ll be to plaze ye, till 1 have the honor to 
 resave ye in Ballyhan Castle, County Clare, wid me 
 complate edition o the Auctores Classic! ad Usum 
 Del/jhini in the bookcase behind our two selves, an* 
 the amphora, wid the sugar and the hot vvather, on the 
 table afore us." 
 
 After all, he seemed to*take so much squalid com 
 fort in his Latin, that I was half sorry I had tried to 
 cut it short. But the voice of Agamemnon was heard 
 outside ; and the old man had only time to say, 
 " Whisht ! I ll mate ye sub rosa (beggin your par 
 don) to-night in the little grane-room at the back o 
 the International saloon, and tell ye what s important, 
 
7G CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 if true (an true it is) ; an in the best of English I ll 
 tell it, on the \vurrd of an Oirish jintleman ! " Then 
 the door opened, and Agamemnon ushered in his 
 mother. 
 
 After making the acquaintance of Mrs. O Ballyhan, 
 I was lost in wonder, that from such a couple the 
 keen, energetic, and straightforward son could have 
 sprung. It was a clear case of what the philosophers 
 call atavism, the re-appearance, in some remote 
 descendant, of ancestral qualities which are entirely 
 wanting in the intermediate generations. Doubtless, 
 I reflected, the stimulating atmosphere of this newest 
 New World had developed the dormant germs of 
 character in Young Bullion. 
 
 Few words will suffice for Mrs. O Ballyhan. She 
 was, perhaps, the most utterly negative, washed-out 
 woman I ever met. In all my observation of her I 
 detected only two feelings that had survived the 
 otherwise complete wreck of will and emotion; 
 namely, her appetite for novel-reading, and her ad-- 
 miration for her humbug of a husband. Toward 
 Agamemnon, whose industry and executive ability 
 were the only support of tlie family, she entertained, 
 apparently, only the mournful sentiment that he was 
 not like his father. I tried once to converse with her 
 on the subject of a sensational romance which she had 
 just been reading, and the result convinced me that 
 she did not remember a word or scene of it. She was 
 like a drunkard, who tastes his liquor only for a brief 
 
AGAMEMNON. 77 
 
 instant while he swallows it, and can not recall its 
 flavor in his craving for more. 
 
 I wondered who cooked and washed, surely not 
 this mere echo of a woman? and who maintained 
 the general order of the house, the interior of which 
 was by no means so slovenly in appearance as its 
 nominal master and mistress. Two windows mutely 
 answered my two mental queries. Through one of 
 them I saw John Chinaman carrying an armful of 
 wood to the kitchen ; through the other, Miss Mary 
 Carleton, briskly returning from school. 
 
 I was curious to see what sort of conversation could 
 come of such a strange mixture of ingredients. 
 Would the O Ballyhan continue to spout maudlin 
 classics, and his spouse sit in rapt vacuity, with her 
 finger in the place where she had left off reading? 
 Would Agamemnon talk about the mine, which must 
 be Greek to the school-teacher, and the school-teacher 
 discourse concerning topics that must be equally 
 Greek to Agamemnon? 
 
 "Greek to Agamemnon!" The w r himsical coinci 
 dence carried my thought further. Of course Miss 
 Mary would have tact, and would speak with Aga 
 memnon in his own tongue as it were. A superior 
 being like her would know how to come down to the 
 level of half-grown natures. Then I found that I 
 was forgetting the whole race of O Ballyhans, and 
 thinking with all my might of the pretty school 
 teacher; and then the door opened, and she stood 
 
78 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 like a picture against the background of pine-woods 
 and sky. 
 
 She did not enter, but said she was going to the 
 post-office to mail a letter. I offered to accompany 
 her ; and she assented graciously, observing, that, as 
 the office was next door to the hotel, it would not take 
 me out of my way. So, making an appointment with 
 Agamemnon for the following morning, I took leave 
 of the O Ballyhans. 
 
 We walked slowly down the street in the slant sun 
 shine. What we said as we walked, I think is hardly 
 worth repetition. Indeed, I remember of it only ho\v 
 hard I tried to be agreeable, and how neatly she foiled 
 my attempts to learn any thing about herself. 
 
 After supper, as I sat lazily on the porch, watching 
 a dog-fight in the "middle distance," I became aware 
 of the presence of the O Ballyhan, who had come 
 from his mansion by the perilous road of the gulch 
 itself to avoid the keen eyes of Agamemnon, or the 
 greetings of tell-tale acquaintances. Everybody knew 
 that he was under filial surveillance, and in process of 
 reform against his will ; and there were thoughtless 
 persons who would not have hesitated to ask him, in 
 a too sonorous and repetitious way, whether he had a 
 pass from his son to be out after dark. 
 
 "Bedad!"he said in a stage-whisper, as he came 
 suddenly upon me out of the shadows, " it s hard 
 worrk I had to lave em behind, domus et placens uxor, 
 an thim sharp eyes o the school-misthress an me 
 
AGAMEMNON. 79 
 
 firrst-borrn. Av they hadn t fell a-talkin \vid wan 
 another, actum est de Repitblica, it would a been all 
 up wid the O Ballyhan. But I gev era the slip ; 
 an the O Ballyhan kapes his worrd non sine pul- 
 vere, not widout a dale o throuble. Sure I came 
 widin an ace of findin meself paddlin about in yur- 
 ghe vasto in the ould hydthraulic reservoir. A rare 
 swimmer I d a been an that s a nate thing too, 
 av ye comprehind it ! " 
 
 I was in no mood for the old fellow s discursive 
 conversation, and I brought him peremptorily to biisi- 
 ness. Thereupon he led the way to the neighboring 
 saloon, and, entering by a back-door, showed me into 
 a room of considerable size, in which a motley crowd 
 was gathered about a green-baize-covered table, intent 
 upon gambling. No one paid attention to us; al 
 though the O Ballyhan, following an impulse which 
 he could not resist, paused at the table, and stood on 
 tiptoe, to watch the game over the shoulders of the 
 players. 
 
 "Maybe ye d loike to try yer luck," he whispered. 
 " Audaces fortuna juvat, the bould boy s the lucky wan ! 
 Or ye moight make use o my supayrior skill an 
 expayrience, by permittin me the honor to invist a 
 small amount for ye?" 
 
 I shook my head sternly, and motioned him away. 
 
 " Ah, thin, it s a comforthable drop ye d prefer. Ad 
 utrumque paratm the O Ballyhan s ready to accom 
 modate ye." He withdrew me to a small table in a 
 
80 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 remote corner, and, disappearing for a moment, re 
 turned with two glasses full of some variety of alco 
 holic "mixed drink," such as the seasoned palates 
 of Pactolus required. When I declined to join him, 
 he proceeded in due course to perform duty for both 
 of us, and, as I found afterwards, at my expense. 
 (" D ye think," said the barkeeper forcibly, " that 
 we d a trusted that old galoot for half a dozen 
 drinks, if he hadn t ordered for a respectable gent? ") 
 
 After all these preliminaries, he began to develop 
 his important communication. It was twofold : first, 
 he wanted to bribe me; secondly, he tried to black 
 mail my clients through me. He had the power to 
 destroy the value of the title to the Agamemnon lode, 
 and would use it if he were not bought off. To this 
 I replied, "Very well. If there is any such trouble 
 about the title, I shall advise my clients to have 
 nothing to do with it, and of course I shall tell your 
 son the ground of my unfavorable decision. " 
 
 At this he began to weep, with whisky and emotion, 
 and lapsed into Latin, from which his strictly busi 
 ness communication had been comparatively free. 
 " Est qucedam jiere voluptas, there s a certain relayf 
 in tares," quoth he: "hinc illce lachrymce. But ye 
 wouldn t tell the boy, now, nee prece nee pretio, not for 
 love nor money. Sure, he d murther me." And, in 
 his dismay over this prospect, he abandoned his plan 
 of operations, and confessed that his claim to the title 
 of the mine consisted merely in the fact that Aga- 
 
AGAMEMNON. 81 
 
 memnon was a minor, and that he was consequently 
 himself the real owner. After which I had to help 
 him home. 
 
 As I turned away from his door, with his " Serus in 
 ccdum redeas, may ye live a thousand yares, an spind 
 all yer avenin s in improvin conversation wid the 
 O Ballvhan ! " sounding in my ears, I saw through a 
 window Miss Mary Carle ton in her own room. She 
 sat, pen in hand, with a half-written letter before her. 
 Her face was raised, and her eyes were turned upward. 
 AVas she thinking of some absent friend, or only hunt 
 ing after a suitable adjective? 1 know not; but I 
 know that she had a beautiful profile. 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE SCHOOL-TEACHER. 
 
 I FELT it my duty, on the following day, to call 
 Young Bullion s attention to the possible defect in 
 his title to the mine which bore his name. He 
 chuckled with a knowing air, and, instead of reply 
 ing to the point, at once began to tease me about 
 my interview with his father. 
 
 " Th ole man show ye how to play cards ? " 
 
 " No : I didn t choose to learn." 
 
82 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 " Stuck ye for the drinks, hey ? I knowed it when 
 I see yer towin him home." 
 
 " For his drinks. Yes : I must confess I was obliged 
 to pay for them, or make trouble. But how did you 
 happen to see us ? I thought you were all abed, 
 except Miss Carleton. There was a light in her 
 room." 
 
 " Oh ! T was jest prowlin around, n thinkin matters 
 over who does she keep a-writin to, n stoppin, n 
 cryin ? That s what I want ter know ! " he added 
 fiercely. 
 
 With sublime virtue I replied that I didn t know, 
 and that perhaps it was none of our business. 
 
 44 Ke-retY," said Young Bullion: " it s none o yours. 
 But it s my business when she cries, now, you bet! 
 She ain t a-goin to cry if Agamemnon O Ballyhan 
 can help it." 
 
 " Who is she ? " I inquired. 
 
 "Ain t a man in this camp as know r s. She jest 
 come down on the camp out o the sky, s ef she was 
 sent. Ye see, when things got livelier, on account o 
 the quartz, the boys said we orter start up the school- 
 house agin. Some on em was for havin church too, 
 right away ; said it looked more like civ l zation : n 
 the others said no, they couldn t afford to run a fust- 
 class parson, an they warn t goin to have no cheap 
 sardine of a parson to bring the gospel into con 
 tempt. Nor they couldn t agree on the kind o church, 
 to begin with. Some of em up 11 said they was 
 
AGAMEMNON. 83 
 
 Catholics, an some was Methodists, n so on ; n, 
 afore the meetin that we had to consider the ques 
 tion come to ajourn, there was a dozen religions a-cuss- 
 in one another, where nobody knowed, up to that 
 time, there was ary one. So they broke up in a row ; 
 n the next day a committee come round to me, n 
 said the camp was goin to leave it to me, cause my 
 head was level, n I hadn t got no prejudices. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen. says I, yer wrong than ye 
 hain t allowed for curiosity. I never was inside of a 
 church while she was in operation; n I m o good 
 mind to give it a trial. But we ll wait n see how 
 the mines turn out, n we ll get the school to produ- 
 cin reg lar, n at the same time we can prospect 
 around, n stake out for a church. Then they had 
 another meeting, n lected me chairman o the com 
 mittee on education n religion. Th ole man, he 
 thought he d got a soft thing, n was going to be 
 principal o the academy. But I sot on him. N in 
 a day or two along come Miss Carleton, n said she 
 was a candidate. Well, we hed a meetin o the com 
 mittee, n they asked her fur her references; n she 
 give one o her looks, ye know, n said right out, 
 straight n clear, Gentlemen, says she, fur reasons 
 o my own, I don t propose to give references. I have 
 taught school in the States, n I think I am compe 
 tent. If you will give me a trial, you will soon find 
 out whether I can manage and teach the children. 
 
 "French Joe, he was on the committee, n he ob- 
 
84 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 jected. But somebody said how would he like to 
 furnish references, n he shut up quick. N Miss 
 Carle ton turned round n spoke about a dozen words 
 to him in his own lingo, clear French; n Joe was 
 unanimous for her after that, you bet! Well, the 
 more they talked, the more they liked her; n at last 
 they voted her in. Now there ain t a man in Pacto- 
 lus that wouldn t go through fire n water to serve 
 her." 
 
 "Then, since your school is so well provided for," 
 said I, "you are about ready to start a church." 
 
 " I ain t no jedge o that," responded Young Bullion ; 
 " but I guess our boys d rather hev things as they 
 are. You see, Miss Carleton has half the camp up to 
 the schoolhouse every Sunday afternoon to her Bible- 
 readin s ; n the boys spend a good part o the fore 
 noon fixin up n gettin ready, n that keeps em out 
 o mischief. Besides, nobody d want to go to Bible- 
 readin tight: so they jist haul off early Saturday 
 night, nstead o keepin t up all night n all Sun 
 day. N they set round there till dark, talkin an 
 thinkin it over; n what she says jest stays by a 
 feller. Somebody sort o mentioned the church busi 
 ness the other day, 11 all he got was to dry up : what 
 was the use o leasin a priest, s long s we had one 
 o the Lord s own angels free ? " 
 
 Agamemnon s eloquence on this subject might have 
 continued indefinitely ; but I remembered my duty 
 to my employers, and reminded him that the serious 
 
AGAMEMNON. 85 
 
 question of title ought to be settled immediately, 
 since, without a satisfactory basis in that particular, I 
 could not properly spend time and labor in examining 
 the mine. 
 
 "Oh!" said he, "that s all right. The ole man 
 don t git ahead o me! Why, he was a-copyin the 
 papers yesterday ; n when he found that one of em 
 was a full deed o his right, title, n interest, he 
 thought he d struck it rich. Didn t know he hed any 
 right, title, n interest up to that time. N he hain t, 
 accordin to the laws o this district. But I jest got a 
 p int or two through my agent in San Francisco, so as 
 to make things all serene ; n when he said the law 
 yers said that wards, minors, n id jits, n so forth, 
 couldn t give deeds, says I, Who s an idjit ? Oh ! 
 says he, * it s a minor you are. What kind of a 
 minor, says I, * if I can t sell a mine ? But James 
 he wa n t no slouch. He understood it right up to 
 the handle ; n he explained it all, n we got the papers 
 fixed before I left." 
 
 " But perhaps your father will refuse to sign, unless 
 you pay him some of the money." 
 
 " He won t sign, won t he?" said Young Bullion 
 with superb contempt. " He d sign away his ole soul 
 for five dollars, or one dollar, or two bits ; n he ll 
 sign that thar deed for nothin when I tell him to." 
 
 " You seem to be very confident of your power over 
 him. Do you use corporal punishment in the fam 
 ily? " I asked jocosely. * 
 
86 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 He took my question quite in earnest. " I know 
 what you mean," said he : "we had a talk about that 
 in the school committee ; n Miss Carleton said she 
 wouldn t hev it. But it s a hefty thing to fall back 
 on. As to my family, I never had to lick th old man 
 but once ; but I did it up in style that time. He was 
 bangin* th ole woman about the room ; n I made up 
 my mind if he couldn t set a better example n that, 
 I d commence n boss the shebang myself. But I ve 
 got a better holt on him than that. Don t you worry: 
 he ll sign." 
 
 I suspected afterwards, no matter on what evidence, 
 that the son had saved the father from either lynch 
 ing or jail by paying some claim, which, if pressed, 
 would have convicted the old scamp of felony ; and 
 that he now held in terrorem over the culprit s head, 
 for purposes of reform, the proofs of the crime. 
 What a strange feeling he must have entertained 
 towards a father whom he could make r,uch sacrifices 
 to save, and then govern by a mixture of thrashing 
 and blackmail ! Young Bullion s code of ethics was 
 certainly confused. He seemed to have a sense that 
 the family was a burden laid on him by fate, to be 
 borne without complaining, and a fierce determina 
 tion, that, though it was a burden, it should cease to 
 be a disgrace. 
 
 My examination of the mine and neighborhood 
 was prolonged through that week and the next. I 
 sent off very early, however, my preliminary report 
 
AGAMEMNON. 87 
 
 and a box of samples by express, with a letter to my 
 clients, saying that I would await further advices, and 
 watch the developments of the work then going on. 
 This was no doubt wdse : but I was conscious that 
 circumstances made it also pleasant ; for, as the days 
 went on, I became, in every respect except her own^ 
 personal history, very well acquainted with Miss Carle- 
 ton. We had many subjects of conversation which 
 she could not discuss with the rude inhabitants of 
 Pactolus. She possessed the great charm of direct 
 ness and simplicity. Perfectly aware of the worship 
 ing regard of her constituency, she spoke of it as 
 openly, and yet with as little vanity (or affected mod 
 esty, which is the same thing), as if it were another 
 person, and not herself, that \vas concerned. " It is a 
 great pleasure," she said one day, "to be really a 
 superior being/ and to go down to help and lift such 
 thankful souls as these. There is a sort of intoxica 
 tion about it for a young w T oman of twenty-one." 
 
 " Do you never feel a longing for some compan 
 ionship more congenial, more like what you have 
 been accustomed to ? " 
 
 "I did; and I am grateful to you for taking so 
 much interest in my work, giving me such intelligent 
 sympathy." 
 
 I felt a little guilty at this ; for my interest in the 
 work was certainly subordinate to my interest in 
 the woman. Our acquaintance, however, remained on 
 the same footing as at first. I wondered why I could 
 
88 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 not even assume the fraternal tone. When she was 
 sad, as I often fancied she was, why did she so effec 
 tively evade sympathy, saying, " Now I am tired and 
 melancholy, don t mourn with me, but make me 
 laugh ? " And why 
 
 Well, thus I drifted, until it was high time for me 
 to stop wondering over her position, and take an 
 observation as to my own. But everybody knows 
 that it may be high time for some duty, and yet one 
 may take no note of the time until some signal 
 sounds the hour. At last the clock struck for me. 
 
 On the second Saturday a letter arrived from my 
 clients, advising me that the results of all assays had 
 been favorable beyond my estimates, and that, if my 
 own judgment continued to approve the purchase, 
 they would close the bargain at once. I was instruct 
 ed to see that the papers were made out in due form, 
 and Mr. O Ballyhan could then express them to his 
 agent in San Francisco, who could deliver them, and 
 receive the money. 
 
 I went at once to Young Bullion, half expecting 
 that this good news would startle him out of his 
 preternatural maturity. It would have been a relief 
 to hear him whoop with joy, or see him stand on his 
 head. But he turned pale, and staggered as if he had 
 been shot. 
 
 " It s most too much for me," he said ; " not the 
 money, but" 
 
 With an effort that gave me a higher conception 
 
* AGAMEMNON. 89 
 
 than ever of his manly self-control, he turned hastily 
 to the table-drawer, and produced the papers of 
 title. They were complete in every particular, the 
 certificate of original location, the deeds of the co- 
 locators to Agamemnon Atrides O Ballyhan, the com 
 plete and absolute quit-claim of Miles O Ballyhan 
 and Leonora his wife, to the said Agamemnon, all 
 duly acknowledged and indorsed by the proper officer, 
 as recorded in the proper " Liber." The young man 
 had evidently not been idle. He must have ridden 
 to the county-seat, many miles away, to secure these 
 last, and in those days somewhat unusual, evidences 
 of regularity. The papers were all in the same 
 handwriting, an elaborate, flourishing script, which 
 he said was the old man s. Finally he showed me 
 another deed, transferring the title in blank, and not 
 yet signed. " When I put my name to that," said 
 he, "the thing s drove in n clinched. I left this one 
 blank ; because, if your folks didn t buy, I might want 
 to use it for some one else." 
 
 "I find every thing in order," I replied. "You 
 have only to fill up and execute this final deed, and 
 send it to your agent." 
 
 Then I walked out, and up into the woods, and medi 
 tated for a long time upon non-professional matters, 
 without coming to any conclusion. 
 
 Should I seek a final interview with Miss Carleton ? 
 and, if so, what should I say to her? I was not so 
 really "in love" as to deliberately intend to offer my- 
 
90 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 self to her without knowing any thing of her history; 
 yet I felt that a farewell talk might lead rne to just 
 that rash act, unless I definitely decided beforehand 
 what should be its nature. 
 
 My reflections were suddenly interrupted by the 
 appearance of the lady herself. Since it was Sat 
 urday afternoon, and therefore holiday, she \vas 
 evidently intending to use her freedom for a walk. 
 Ordinarily I would have hastened to join her, with 
 a pleasant impression that my company was not un 
 welcome. This time, however, I hesitated; because 
 I had not yet finished my mental debate, and was 
 in a perilous state of impressible uncertainty. I re 
 mained sitting a little distance from the path, in the 
 expectation that she would pass by without seeing 
 me ; then, I thought, I would hasten to make up my 
 mind, and on her return I could casually meet her, 
 prepared to speak as the result of my reflection might 
 dictate. I ought to add that prudence would have 
 had, in any case, nothing to say if I had been able to 
 see any signs of a more than friendly interest on her 
 part; but I could not honestly say to myself that 
 any such sign had been discernible hitherto. I could 
 not doubt that a declaration of any special interest on 
 my part would be a great surprise to her ; and really, 
 I was not myself prepared to make it, unless hurried 
 over the edge of deliberation by some sudden im 
 pulse. 
 
 She neither saw me nor passed me : on the con- 
 
AGAMEMNON. 91 
 
 trary, she stepped aside from the path, and seating 
 herself on a fallen tree a few yards in front of me, 
 and with her back to me, read and re-read a letter ; 
 then, looking steadfastly down over the town, and 
 out through the gulch, toward the foot-hills and the 
 valley, she seemed to be weeping. Which would be 
 more embarrassing? to make my presence known, 
 or to remain an involuntary witness of her suffering? 
 I had just resolved to go forward and speak to her 
 any words that would comfort her when a new inci 
 dent checked my purpose. Headlong up the path 
 came Mr. Agamemnon Atrides O Ballyhan. There 
 was no indecision about his manner. He came, to 
 use a homely comparison, "as if he had been sent 
 for." 
 
 V. 
 
 NOT MISS MARY BUT "QUITE CONTRAIRY." 
 
 A MOMENT more, and he stood before Miss Carleton. 
 " I saw ye goin up the hill," he said breathlessly, 
 " n I thought I d catch yer. The Agamemnon s sold, 
 Miss Mary : she s sold ! " 
 
 With ready sympathy, putting aside her own trouble, 
 she replied, " How glad I am ! Now what will you 
 do? " 
 
92 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 " That s what what I was a-goin to ask y about. 
 Ye see, I s pose th ole man n Mother ought to be 
 fixed somehow ; ought to be took care of, I mean. 
 Not to have any money: they can t take care o 
 money. Ye see, he d spend it in cards n whisk} , 
 n she d spend it in novels and opium. Gets opium 
 on the sly from the Chinamen. Now, I mean to ap- 
 pint Cripple Dan gardeen for them two. He ll never 
 do no more work since the bank caved in on him ; but 
 he is smart enough to watch ? em, n not be took in by 
 any o their tricks. He can play cards with th ole 
 man to keep him out o gamblin , n he can buy nov 
 els as fast as Mother can swaller em. Shouldn t 
 wonder if he could ring in some o th old ones on 
 her once in a while, by changin the covers. But 
 whisky n opium they must be kep out." 
 
 "A very practical arrangement, I should say. 
 But what are you going to do? " 
 
 At this simple question Young Bullion became 
 much embarrassed. " Do you," said he, " Miss Mary 
 would you is seventy-five thousand dollars 
 enough, do you think, to run a reg lar gentleman s 
 house ? " 
 
 She sighed involuntarily. " It is enough to main 
 tain a happy home with every comfort and luxury. 
 There are many refined gentlemen who bring up 
 their families in content on far less money than the 
 income of that sum." 
 
 " Well, but Miss Mary would it be enough for 
 you f " 
 
AGAMEMNON. 93 
 
 She started in astonishment. " For me ? What do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean," replied the young man, conquering his 
 timidity, and speaking with a simple dignity that 
 made him handsome, "I mean that you are the one 
 that made me want to be a gentleman, n I can t be 
 a gentleman unless you help me ; n I love the ground 
 you tread on, Miss Mary. If you ll be my wife, you 
 shall never work, or cry, or be sorry again." 
 
 There was a moment of painful silence. Then she 
 said, "I did not dream of this. I am so much older 
 than you, you know." 
 
 " You are not so very much older," he pleaded. 
 "That is not what troubled me. But you are so 
 much better n wiser, that s what s the matter with 
 you ! I wouldn t a dared to speak to ye ; but I 
 knowed ye was in trouble. N now the Agamem 
 non s sold, n what s it all good for, f I can t give it 
 to you ? " 
 
 " My dear friend," she answered slowly, but with 
 that simple frankness which belonged to her, " I have 
 been I am in trouble ; but I can not take your 
 help. You must forget, as I will forget, all that you 
 have said, but not the kindness that prompted it, nor 
 the gratitude with which I refuse it." 
 
 Agamemnon looked keenly at her, with the air of 
 one who still pursued a fixed purpose. The refusal 
 of his offer did not seem to be a conclusive defeat to 
 his mind. 
 
94 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 " Ye couldn t change yer mind ? " he asked reflec 
 tively. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Not never ? Not if I was older n I be ? " 
 
 " Never. You must not think of it." 
 
 u Then ye re married to some other feller! " said 
 Agamemnon, with a sad triumph. "Now, Miss 
 Mary, it ain t no business o mine, I know; but ye d 
 better tell me, anyhow. Wouldn t ifc sort o quiet my 
 mind, n do me good, hey ? " 
 
 This subtle appeal to her benevolence accomplished 
 what no inquisitive stratagem could have compassed. 
 After a slight hesitation she said, " There is not much 
 to tell, and it is not very important that I should 
 keep it secret, only I have preferred to do so ; and I 
 trust you to help me in that. Yes, I am married; and 
 my dear husband is slowly recovering at at a place 
 on the San Joaquin, from a long, wasting fever, I 
 left him when he was pronounced out of danger, and 
 I have seen him but once since then. It was the 
 other day, when I took the journey by stage from 
 which I returned on the same coach with you. It is 
 hard to be parted from him. 
 
 " Now, don t ye cry again, Miss Mary. It ain t none 
 o my business, ye know ; but it would sort o settle 
 my mind he s good to ye, ain t he ? Ye didn t go 
 for to leave him cause he wouldn t let ye boss the 
 ranch ? " 
 
 - The ranch V " she replied sadly. " I left him be- 
 
AGAMEMNON. 95 
 
 cause, after his long illness, we were so poor that we 
 were in danger of losing our pretty ranch altogether, 
 and of starving perhaps, unless one of us could get 
 work. That one was I ; and the work I understand 
 best is teaching." 
 
 " You bet ! " assented Young Bullion with enthusi 
 asm. " But jest to ease iny mind completely, ye 
 know why didn t you tell somebody afore? This 
 camp would a raised yer salary, n fetched yer hus 
 band up here, n built ye a shebang, n look here, 
 what line o business is he in ? " 
 
 "He is a minister." 
 
 " Whoop la ! " shouted Young Bullion : " that s our 
 lay exactly. There s a fust-class vacancy right here, 
 n I ll no, T guess I couldn t quite stand it, hevin 
 him around : that s what s the matter with me ! But 
 why didn t you tell us afore this this trouble was 
 made? We d a voted him n you in unanimous. 
 Anybody that s a good nough husband fer you s a 
 good nough minister fer us." 
 
 " I wish I had told you all at the beginning," said 
 she ; " but, perhaps, if I had done so, you would have 
 declined my services altogether. I heard about your 
 dispute over a minister, and I feared to let you know 
 I was a minister s wife. It was so important, so very 
 important to me then, to get a place immediately." 
 
 Young Bullion made no reply. If what he had 
 heard had not " eased his mind," it had at least given 
 him much to think about. The silence which ensued 
 
06 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 recalled me to a sense of ray embarrassing position as 
 a listener ; and, with sudden presence of mind, I 
 stepped forward. 
 
 "You must pardon me, my friends," I said, "that 
 I have overheard your conversation. Nothing that 
 you have said shall be repeated. But every word has 
 deepened my respect for both of you. If I can in any 
 way be of service to you, Mrs. Mrs. Mary, you 
 have only to command me as a faithful friend." 
 Then I lifted my cap, and retired in as good order as 
 a fellow could under the circumstances. 
 
 I had gone but a few steps when Young Bullion 
 overtook me. That boy s penetration was most an 
 noying at times, and this w r as one of the times. 
 
 " Goin to play fer the school-teacher yerself, wa n t 
 ye, if I hedn t got the call fust?" was his dreadful 
 greeting. u Well, tain t no use fer nary one of us. 
 You jest go n thank the Lord y ever knowed her, n 
 don t you whine cause she s picked out a better man. 
 No cryin over spilt milk. That s me ! " And he 
 straightened himself until his short stature visibly 
 increased. 
 
 I got rid of Young Bullion as soon as practicable, 
 and went to the hotel in a dazed condition, as if I 
 had fallen from the top of the mountain, and rolled 
 down the gulch. When one has seriously weighed a 
 question like that which had occupied my thoughts 
 that afternoon, it is inevitably startling to find that it 
 was a matter wholly beyond question all the time. I 
 
AGAMEMNON. 07 
 
 wanted to think it over. But I did not succeed in 
 thinking it over on the porch after supper: so I 
 went to bed to meditate there ; and finally I went to 
 sleep, my last reflection being, that I would review the 
 whole matter on the morrow, after which I would pay 
 the school-teacher a cordial, friendly farewell call. 
 
 But the morrow brought its own topics for surprise 
 and reflection. At early dawn I was waked by a 
 hand on my shoulder, and, turning sleepily in bed, 
 met the energetic look of Agamemnon Atrides O Bal- 
 lyhan. He, at least, had thought over his situation, 
 and made his decision. 
 
 " Sorry to h ist ye so early," said he ; " but I m off. 
 Now, don t ye go fer to ask no questions, but tend to 
 business. Here s them papers : they re all right, n 
 you ll find my directions along with em. I m off. 
 Take care o yerself, ole boy." And he was gone. 
 
 I opened the package he had left on rny bed. It 
 contained all the papers I had previously inspected. 
 The final deed, however, had been filled up and exe 
 cuted ; and I was not a little surprised to find my 
 own name inserted as the new owner of the Agamem 
 non. Enclosed in the deed, however, was a document 
 in a cramped schoolboy hand which threw full light 
 on the transaction. It ran as follows : 
 
 " This is my Will But I aint ded no nor goin to be but 
 I am as good as ded wich it is All the Same line gon over 
 the Range the mine belongs to miss mary and u give her 
 the inunny she kuos about Criple dann and the olrnan 
 
93 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 and mother you pay my agent 1 tliousn Dolars and doan 
 take nothin for yureself yure foaks pays u with the munny 
 i antid up i truss u becaus u likt miss mary too. 
 
 "AGAMEMNON ATBIDES O BALLYHAN." 
 
 Why should I detain the reader with an account of 
 what followed V It was not easy for me to execute 
 the charge confided to me. The lady at first utterly 
 refused to accept the strange legacy of which I was 
 trustee. But I succeeded in persuading her to take 
 the money, and carry out Agamemnon s wishes until 
 he should be found, an event which I felt sure he 
 would not permit to happen. " Get your husband to 
 come here and live," I said. u If the boy ever means 
 to be seen again, it is to this place he will come ; and 
 it is here, in the good work you have begun, of which 
 his own awakened manhood was one of the first- 
 fruits, that you should expend the income of his 
 legacy." 
 
 Cripple Dan, it turned out, had been already sound 
 ed as to his willingness to take charge of the two way 
 ward O Ballyhans on a handsome allowance for the 
 three. He assumed the position at once, and smashed 
 two hidden bottles for the O Ballyhan the first day. 
 That disconsolate old toper supposed the orders for 
 this vandalism proceeded from the school-teacher. 
 " Dux fcemina factij it s a woman is in it: cedant arma 
 toyce, the glory o the O Ballyhans is swipt away be a 
 petticoat," was his lament. But he submitted to be 
 made comfortable, and seemed none the worse for his 
 enforced sobriety. 
 
AGAMEMNON. 99 
 
 VI. 
 
 SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR. 
 
 THUS I left them all, and closed a chapter in my 
 own life which I expected never to re-open. But 
 time brings about unexpected coincidences; and what 
 should it bring to me, the ether day, ten years after 
 the even Is narrated in this story, but a visit from Aga 
 memnon Atrides O Ballyhan ? a prosperous, manly 
 fellow as one would wish to see, with stylish clothes 
 and a fine mustache. And on his arm could I be 
 lieve my eyes ? Was it the school-teacher, become as 
 much younger as Agamemnon had grown, older ? 
 
 "Mrs. O Ballyhan," said he proudly, "Miss Mary s 
 sister. You and I didn t feel very happy that day, 
 you know; but now I m glad I waited." The latter 
 remark was fortunately an aside, so that Mrs. O Bal 
 lyhan did not hear it. 
 
 . "You bet!" I answered, clothing due felicitation 
 in what I thought would be congenial style. But 
 1 was mistaken as to the style. Agamemnon had 
 " swore off " from slang so far as human nature would 
 permit. Only now and then, as he confessed, "con 
 versation got the better of him." 
 
 During the short half-hour that the happy pair sat 
 in my office, my old friend gave me an outline of his 
 
100 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 career from the day when we had parted. It would 
 make another story by itself, and I am sorry that it 
 must be condensed in a few lines. 
 
 After striking it rich " again, over the Range in 
 Nevada, and accumulating from several lucky hits a 
 fortune at least double that which he had given away, 
 he had returned to Pactolus six years from the day of 
 his disappearance. 
 
 " It took me about that time," said he, "to get over 
 things. But then I couldn t rest till I had seen the 
 old place, and so I came back.. The old folks were 
 both dead best thing for em. But there was the 
 minister and his wife just about worshiped by every 
 body ; and there was an Agamemnon Academy, and 
 an Agamemnon Free Library, and so on, all built 
 with the interest of my money. You d better believe 
 everybody was astonished to see me. All thought [ 
 was dead, sure, except Miss Mary : she stuck to it 
 I would come back. Even when they found some 
 body s bones over in the sage-brush beyond the sum 
 mit, and had a funeral on em, she wouldn t let em 
 call my name at the funeral, nor put it on the tomb 
 stone. 
 
 " Well, they wanted me to take back my capital. 
 But I told em I d got enough ; and, at any rate, there 
 wasn t any hurry. I d stay round a while, and con 
 sider. So, after I had considered a little, I went to 
 Miss Mary and the parson, and says I, What 1 want 
 is to go to school. I feel pretty old; but I guess I 
 
AGAMEMNON. 101 
 
 ain t too old to learn. You see, my Susy here, she 
 was assistant teacher in the academy, and I thought 
 she could teacli me if anybody could. But they said 
 I was too big to go and sit on the benches in the 
 academy. Susy said she couldn t think of trying to 
 manage a scholar twenty-two years old: that was so 
 very old, a whole year older than she was! So I 
 had to take up with the minister s offer to give me 
 private instruction. And I got my pay, too, before 
 long; for the minister said I got ahead so fast that I 
 had better join the reading-class. That meant to 
 come every other day and read and talk over books 
 with him and his wife and Susy. 
 
 "It was a good while before I made up to Susy. 
 Had a good lesson once, you know and, besides, 
 I had got more bashful. The more I learned, the 
 more 1 found I didn t know ; and I felt so ugly and 
 clumsy, and inferior every way, it didn t seem as if a 
 lady like her would care for me unless it was by 
 reason of the two hundred thousand dollars. But 
 Susy didn t know about that, and she wouldn t have 
 minded it a mite if she had. Fact is, she thought a 
 good deal better of me than I deserved all the time ; 
 for her folks had been cracking me up for years and 
 years, and all the Academy Commencements and the 
 Annual Reports had a lot in em about the * munifi 
 cent founder and the generous benefactor, and I 
 don t know what all; and so, when I turned up alive 
 at last, she was prepared to believe I w r as better than 
 
102 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 I looked. Anyhow, I got to be like one of the fam 
 ily ; and Susy was as good as she could be, and took 
 no end of pains with me, to help me put on a little 
 style, and talk the correct thing, and so on. And one 
 day she was showing me how to hold yarn for her to 
 wind; and says I, sitting there as meek as a lamb, 
 4 Seems to me, if you couldn t manage a big boy of 
 twenty-two, you ve somehow got the knack of mana 
 ging him now he s nigh twenty-four. 
 
 " Well, one thing led to another ; and that skein 
 of yarn got so tangled (because I forgot to lay it 
 down), that Susy said it should never be unraveled. 
 She keeps it as a curiosity. 
 
 " The next morning I went to the parson, and says 
 I, Now let s talk business. I ll take that hundred 
 thousand back, just to please you; though I ve got 
 twice as much, and I don t want it. He said, i All 
 right ; but he looked a little cast down too. Par 
 sons are human. 
 
 "* Now, says I, it s mine ; and I m going to make 
 another business proposition. You marry Susy and 
 me, and I ll give you, say, a hundred thousand dollars 
 as a wedding-fee. 
 
 " * Oho ! says he. * Well, my boy ; she s worth it. 
 You ve made a good bargain, and so have I. 
 
 " That was two years ago ; and Susy and I have 
 just been the happy pair you read about, ever since. 
 She s been going right ahead with my education, and 
 got about as much polish on me, I guess, as the grain 
 
AGAMEMNON. 103 
 
 will bear. You can t make mahogany out o red 
 wood, if you rub it for ever. So the other day I 
 made a little turn in Agamemnon stock, those 
 blamed fools in California Street thought the mine 
 was played out. when they had a new body of first- 
 class ore right under their noses, and I asked Susy 
 if she didn t think a little foreign travel was about 
 the thing to finish off with. She wasn t long saying 
 yes to that ; and here we are, bound for everywhere. 
 I expect we ll go round the world before we stop." 
 
 We had a most friendly and familiar chat; and the 
 last I heard of them was as they were departing in 
 merry mood together, and the sweet voice of Mrs. 
 O Ballyhan said, " He offered to get the Legislature to 
 change it; but I said No. I like him just as he is, 
 name and all Agamemnon Atrides O Ballyhan." 
 
 She laughed a musical laugh of mingled mirth and 
 pride as she added, glancing fondly at her husband, 
 44 But I call him * my dear, for short." 
 
WIDOW BAKER: 
 A NEW-ENGLAND STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SQUIRE AND DEACON. 
 
 |T was a bright., still day, after the first hard 
 frost. The chestnuts were dropping in the 
 woods; and Squire Hawkins, one of the 
 selectmen of the town of Hucklebury, was 
 burning brush on his side-hill ten-acre-lot. The 
 squire had got through with the heavy work, and had 
 nothing to do but to watch the fire while he tinkered 
 here and there at the fence. So, when Deacon Pea- 
 body s white horse, pulling a shay with the deacon 
 in it, came in sight on the hill-road, the squire had 
 no reason to deny himself the expectation of a com 
 fortable and leisurely clr >: From where he stood, 
 he could see the turnpike tuat came from the corners 
 arid went through the valley, past the red school- 
 house, and past Westcott s sawmill, to Hucklebury 
 104 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 105 
 
 Center and South Ilucklebury, and so on to larger 
 places. And when he saw the deacon s shay turn 
 from the pike and begin to ascend the hill-road, he 
 knew that in about fifteen minutes the deacon would 
 be at hand. That gave him time to fix up one more 
 length of fence, and to fold his arms sociably on the 
 top-rail, ready for an. interview. The deacon s horse 
 stopped opposite the squire, without needing any hint 
 from his driver. He knew the custom of the coun 
 try, and was not averse to it, particularly when the 
 opportunity to observe it occurred on a convenient, 
 level spot, at the end of a steep pull. 
 
 "Wai, Deacon," said the squire heartily, "I m glad 
 to see ye out agin. We ve kind o missed ye at 
 meetin , n everywhere else too, for that matter. The 
 parson, he says he s all lost o Sundays thout you to 
 look at : dunno whether he s been sufficiently explicit 
 on a tough pint o doctrine, or not. You took it most 
 too hard, Deacon. Grief is nateral, of course, to a 
 reasonable extent; but Mis Peabody had been a- 
 f ailiu so long, ye know ; and it was a gret marcy 
 she passed away comfortable in body an mind; an , 
 on the hull, there s much to be thankful for. I 
 expect it is kind o lonesome, now she s gone ; " and 
 the squire paused, W 7 ith the air of one who had 
 administered consolation and rebuke in wise propor 
 tions. 
 
 Deacon Phineas Peabody took no offense where 
 none was meant. He had nursed his invalid wife 
 
106 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 through her long illness, an old-fashioned, slow 
 consumption, and he had shut himself up for a 
 month after her death, in a silent sorrow too deep 
 for words ; but now he had braced himself again for 
 the duties of life, and he quite assented to the rough 
 but well-meant observations of his friend. 
 
 " Yes," said the deacon meditatively, " she lasted a 
 good while ; *n I dunno s I ever quite giv up hopin 
 about her. She d git a little better some weeks, n 
 then agin a little wuss ; n she was allers lookin on 
 the dark side herself, so / sort o got in the way o 
 s posin mebbe she wa n t so bad s she thought for. 
 Them last drops that her sister Mahaly sent up from 
 Boston seemed to take right hold of her cough. But 
 it wa n t no use : it was ordained. Cynthy w r as right, 
 after all. I s pose the Lord kind o prepared her for 
 what was comin ." 
 
 "There s Susan," said the squire. "She must be 
 gret comfort to ye. She s a good gal, Susan is. I ve 
 follered her ever sence she was a little bit of a thing, 
 comin over to our house after maple-sugar. I used 
 to think young Jotham Baker and she would make a 
 match on t; but, bless you! these young folks will 
 hev their own idees, and they re too sharp for us old 
 fellows to find em out. I tell ye, I was jest up-an - 
 down mortified when Jotham carne to me, an told me 
 he was engaged to Westcott s darter Nancy. Not 
 but she was a nice gal, n I had nothin agin the 
 match, except that old Westcott was a Methodist n 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 107 
 
 a Democrat, n it did Seem kind o mean to hold Nancy 
 responsible for that. But I thought, after all his 
 goin s on with Susan, it wasn t jest exactly right for 
 him to go off arter another one ; n I told him so. 
 Says I, Jotham, my boy, there ain t no objection to 
 your takin a wife, in the fear o the Lord, wherever 
 you find her, amongst the Moabites, or the Hittites, 
 or the Methodists, or the Democrats ; but I don t like 
 this philanderin at the same time with Susan Pea- 
 bedy. Jotham, he bust out a-larnn , n says he, 
 Why, Susan has know d all about it ever sence it 
 began. Thet s what I talk about to Susan, says he. 
 Well, says I, it s none o my business, you know, 
 Jotham: you hevn t got to answer to me for your 
 doin s ; but I d like to know how long ago it be 
 gan. 
 
 " Wai, he was ready enough to talk about it. He d 
 a talked all day if I d a let him. You see, I was 
 an old friend of his fam ly, n Widder Baker sot a 
 good deal by my advice; n Jotham, he was like 
 a son to me. So he told me he had been acquainted 
 with Nancy Westcott ever sence the quiltin down to 
 W^estcott s, jest afore last year s donation-party. Do 
 tell ! says I, tol ble scornful ; n you ve know d 
 Susan Peabody all your life. You must excuse me 
 for sayin of it, young man ; but Susan is wuth a 
 dozen of her. 
 
 " Susan is the best girl that ever lived, says he, 
 * exceptin Nancy ; but that s a very different matter. 
 
108 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 I tell ye, Susan wouldn t loolt at me, onless as a 
 friend. So oft he went, n that s a most the last 
 time I see him. He sailed for the East Injees that 
 fall, n now it s about two year, n he hain t been 
 heerd from. I ve hed it on my mind many a time to 
 tell ye about that talk ; cause, says I to myself, per 
 haps the deacon hed the same idee as I did, n he 
 might think strange on it that Jotham Baker got 
 engaged, afore he sailed, to Xancy Westcott, arter he d 
 been pay in attentions to Susan Peabody. " 
 
 The deacon had listened to the squire s voluble 
 story in an absent-minded way, paying, in truth, very 
 little attention to it. lie had never quite realized 
 that his little Susan had come to bo a young woman. 
 To him she was a dutiful and comely daughter, 
 deeply but not demonstratively loved, a brisk house 
 keeper, a skillful nurse to her invalid mother, a 
 melodious singer in the choir, and a great favorite 
 with the Widow Baker. Since his wife s death, he 
 had thought more about Susan ; and now the squire s 
 allusion to her aroused a host of feelings and remi 
 niscences, in which the love-affairs of Jotham Baker 
 had not the remotest share. 
 
 u Exactly," said the deacon, not very exactly, so 
 far as a logical reply was concerned. c; Susan s a 
 good darter, n a middlin manager. She used to 
 be a bright, heal thy- look in gal; but I think it lias 
 wore on her, tendin to her ma. She ain t so spry as 
 she was, n the color is kind o faded out of her 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 109 
 
 cheeks. I m af eared she s a-goin to be delicate. 
 Fact is, I was jest ridin over to Widder Baker s to 
 talk to her about Susan. I thought mebbe she d fix 
 her up suthin to take, that d do her good, n s j t her 
 up. Susan mopes n reads too much ; though I dunno 
 s she slights her housekeepin any. But she s a gret 
 hand for books takes after her ma. But she won t 
 never be sech a woman as her ma was. Miss Baker 
 was a gret friend o my Cynthy " 
 
 The deacon s simple admiration of his deceased 
 wife would have been amusing, if it had not been 
 pathetic. Probably nobody else would have extolled 
 the intellect of the late Mrs. Peabody ; and certainly 
 nobody would have dreamed of pronouncing Susan 
 her inferior, Susan, who talked on terms of equality 
 with the parson and the doctor and the schoolmaster, 
 and who had even written poetry which had been pub 
 lished with editorial commendation in " The Adver 
 tiser/ But to the patient and apparently prosaic 
 deacon, there never had come an end of the romantic 
 admiration with which he had in his youth regarded 
 his Cynthia. Indeed, his present visit to the Widow 
 Baker, undertaken on the pretext of talking about 
 Susan, was really inspired by the longing to talk 
 about his wife with one who had known and loved 
 her. 
 
110 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE BAKERS. 
 
 GOIN over to Widder Baker s, be ye? " answered 
 the squire. " Xpect ye hain t heerd the news. Law 
 yer Marigold, over to the Center, has foreclosed on 
 that Baker mortgage ; n it s likely Widder Baker ll 
 be turned out o house n home. I was over to the 
 Center yesterday to see what could be done about it. 
 Marigold, he was reasonable enough ; didn t want 
 nothin but his money, an he s waited for that this 
 ten year, not wishin to disturb the fam ly. Ye see, 
 the kernel borrowed the money. Kernel Baker was 
 a well-meanin man ; but all his geese was swans, an 
 he was shif less besides, allers a-contrivin suthin, 
 or in ven tin* suthin, n never reelly amountin to 
 nothin . There was that patriotic warfle-iron o 
 liis n, in the shape of the American eagle. He 
 was sure he had got a fortin in that. Fact is, I 
 thought it was a good idee myself, men-folks don t 
 know much about cookin , ye see, an I let him 
 have a hundred dollars just to start the thing. AVall, 
 he brought the very fust one down to our house, n 
 made a present on t to my wife ; n, the minit she sot 
 eyes on it, she took the sense o the thing, and was 
 sartin it wouldn t work. The idee was good enough 
 
WIDOW BAKER. HI 
 
 for any thing bat a warfle-iron ; but ye couldn t make 
 a warfle on it, to save your life. When the beak n 
 the thunderbolts was done to a crips, the innards was 
 most raw ! Now that was Kernel Baker, overdone 
 in one spot, n underdone in another spot, s long s he 
 lived. 
 
 "Wai, s I was sayin , Marigold let him have two 
 thousand dollars on his farm. The land -ain t worth 
 the money, you know, not even if you throw in the 
 house and barn. But the kernel he had found a 
 gold-mine up in the rocks on top o the hill; n sure 
 enough he did show r some gold that he got out on t, 
 n I guess that sort o stirred old Marigold s blood. 
 Ye know thct hole the kernel s cow fell into n broke 
 her neck? Wai, thet s the mine. They never could 
 make it pay; n the kernel he pottered around about 
 it, washin an malgamatin , an the Lord knows what, 
 till he got the rheumatiz, n salivated himself with 
 the quicksilver, n kind o run down an died. Then 
 Eliakim started off out West to seek his fortin ; an 
 Marigold promised him to wait five years, so s to 
 give him a chance to redeem the old place. It w an t 
 wuth the money; but folks will get their hearts sot 
 on the place they was born in, if it s too poor for a 
 chicken-paster. Thet s nateral. But, afore the five 
 years was up, Eliakim he d took a fever out there in 
 Illinois, n died, n left nothiiv. So there was nobody 
 but the widder n Jotham. I tell ye, Deacon it como 
 mighty hard on Jotham to make up his mind to go 
 
112 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 away n leave his mother. He tried every way to git 
 a livin out o the farm ; but all he could do he couldn t 
 niore n make both ends meet, n hard scratchin at 
 thet, teachin school in the winter, n workin at 
 Westcott s sawmill, besides all the farm-work n 
 chores at home. Then come that courtin business 
 with Xancy ; n AVestcott didn t half like it. But the 
 gal was headstrong, n there was nothin to be said 
 agin Jotham, only he was poor. But Westcott he had 
 been poor himself, n he didn t stand so much on thet; 
 only he said the young folks must wait. Fact is, 
 Jotham was too proud to settle down onto a father- 
 in-law, partic ly with his mother. So he started off 
 to sea. Advised him to go myself. He couldn t do 
 so well any other way. It was a good chance, super 
 cargo I b lieve they called it, with middlin fair pay, 
 11 the priv lege o speculatin a little on his own hook. 
 An Lawyer Marigold he said he d wait another year 
 to see what d come of it. I clunno how much you ve 
 heerd o this afore, Deacon : what with Miss Peabody 
 bein so thick with Widder Baker, nd your Susan 
 sech good friends with Jotham, it s more n likely you 
 kep the run o the whole thing. But what I m com- 
 in to ll be news to ye. About a week ago I see in 
 The Advertiser that Jotham s ship had been giv up 
 for lost, n the insurance company lied paid the insur 
 ance on her. That s a purty sartin sign, ye know. 
 When one o them companies pays up, it must be a 
 tol ble clear case. 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 113 
 
 "So, as I was savin , I hitched up yesterday, n 
 drove over to the Center, to see Lawyer Marigold 
 about it. Says I, There s the Widow Baker without 
 kith or kin, n how she ll git along s more n I can 
 see. Jotharn left her his winter s arnin s ; n the farm 
 has jest about kep her in vittles. One o my men 
 worked ikon shares. But he give her all it perduced ; 
 n I made it all right with him. Iwaii t goin to hev 
 Jotham come back, n find we d let the old lady suf 
 fer. However, says I, thet s no way to get along. 
 
 " * Won t Westcott do nothin ? says Marigold. 
 
 " Westcott s not a bad man, says I, if he is cluss. 
 But I don t think the widow d take any help from him. 
 Ye see, she knows it was all along o Nancy that her 
 boy went off, n she takes it hard that Nancy hain t 
 been to see her. Gals is gals, n I don t want to jedge 
 em ; but the fact is, Nancy never did care quite so 
 much for Jotham as she made out to. N about a year 
 arter he was gone, that smart young feller from Boston 
 came a-cuttin round, n she was mightily taken with 
 him. They say there wa n t no reg lar engagement 
 between her an Jotham : the old man wouldn t hear 
 on t. So the long an short on t is, they re goin to be 
 married day before Christmas, n she s goin to live in 
 Boston, n keep her own kerridge. No wonder she 
 was a little shy o the widder ! " 
 
 The deacon listened to the squire s long story, and 
 gently poked oft with his whip the flies that settled 
 on the white horse. His kind heart was beginning to 
 
CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 stir within him, and to take an interest in the trials 
 and sorrows of other people. " Seems to me," said 
 the deacon, "I heu heerd a good deal o this afore; 
 but I cal late I ve ben too much occupied with my 
 own troubles. I sort o let it go through my ears with 
 out stoppin . I do remember Susan lettin out the 
 other day about Nancy Westcott, an sayin it was a 
 shame she was goin to git married; but I jest put it 
 down as gals talk. Wai, what did Lawyer Marigold 
 say? " 
 
 " He said he hadn t no idee o turnin . the Widow 
 Baker out o house an home at her age; but ho didn t 
 see no good o leavin on her there when she couldn t 
 git her livin . lie guessed he d hev to foreclose so s 
 to get a clear title to the farm, ef it ever should be 
 worth any thing. Somebody d hev to pay taxes, n 
 keep up the fences, an so on. When the branch rail 
 road come in to Hucklebury, the land might be 
 wanted. It was a good place for a tunnel, anyhow. 
 But he was ready to give a bond, that ef Widder 
 Baker, or any other Baker, wanted the place back 
 agin, they should have it for what it cost him. 
 
 " * Wai, says I, Mr. Marigold, thet s fair n square. 
 As for the widder, I don t see but she ll hev to come 
 on the town. " 
 
 When Deacon Peabody heard that, he winced a 
 little; but on second thought he said reflectively, 
 "Wai, it ain t a disgrace, so far as I know, for a 
 good woman to be took care of by her neighbors, 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 115 
 
 when she s brought up her family well, 11 lost em all, 
 an got beyond takin* care of herself." 
 
 "Jest so," replied the squire. "I thought I d go 
 over an* break it to her; but 1 didn t quite like to do 
 it, pavtic ly now, with this news about Jotham s ship 
 bein lost, an the boy drowned. An I had an idee 
 that there wan t no need o tellin her the hull on t. 
 We might auction off her board, accordin to law ; V 
 then the lowest bidder could jest step over, n invite 
 her to stay with him." 
 
 The deacon suddenly broke off the conversation. 
 " I must be gittin on," said he, "and addressed the 
 white horse with a sudden " G dap ! " that surprised 
 that venerable animal into a trot up hill. A listener 
 unacquainted with the characters of these worthy 
 people would have been shocked to hear a conversa 
 tion which showed at least some faculty of sympathy 
 and respect for the Widow Baker terminate with the 
 cold-blooded proposition to put her up at auction as a 
 pauper, and let her go to the citizen who would give 
 her board and lodging for the smallest sum. Yet 
 such a judgment would have been unjust. Under 
 plain words and ways, both the squire and the deacon 
 meant nothing but kindness. Either of them was 
 ready to take the widow into his own home, and 
 make her old age comfortable. Neither would have 
 exacted payment from her; but that was no reason 
 why the town shouldn t pay something for keeping 
 her. Indeed, strange as it may appear, not only 
 
110 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 these two men, but many another substantial citizen, 
 would have argued that whoever, not being a rela 
 tive, and so bound to support her, should undertake 
 her maintenance, ought, as a matter of right to his 
 neighbors, to accept from the common treasury some 
 payment for his pains. It was the only way in which 
 all could contribute. This way of looking at the 
 matter would not long have survived any considera 
 ble increase in the number of the poor. But Huckle- 
 bury had hardly any paupers. A blind man, a para 
 lytic, and one or two old people who had, like Widow 
 Baker, outlived their relations and means of subsist 
 ence, comprised the entire list. Every year the 
 selectmen put them up at auction, after town-meet 
 ing; and on this small scale, and among such simple 
 and kind-hearted folks, the plan worked well. 
 
 The deacon, softened by his own recent grief, and 
 touched with the remembrance of the relations be 
 tween his lost Cynthy and the Widow Baker, had 
 made up his mind at once and irrevocably to give 
 the latter a home in his own household. He didn t 
 mean to wait for the auction even. He would take 
 her in, if he had to pay her whole support himself. 
 But, of course, he would bid, like other people; and 
 no false delicacy would prevent him from accepting 
 the stipend which the selectmen were bound to pay. 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 117 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BOARD AND LODGING. 
 
 WIDOW BAKER was in her sitting-room alone. It 
 was not a handsome apartment : indeed, it had no 
 element of beauty except that spotless neatness which 
 is the sole adornment within the reach of poor folks. 
 People used to say, " Widder Baker s settin -room s 
 as clean s a June sky," and the expression carried a 
 sens t e of thoroughness with it \vhich was well deserved. 
 One was sure that under the clean rag-carpet there 
 was an unstained floor, that the shining brass candle 
 sticks on the mantelpiece hid no lurking windrows 
 of dust, that under the settee, and behind the doors, 
 and aw ays on the top- shelf of the dresser, a bride 
 might have rubbed the finger of her white kid glove 
 without sullying its purity. Just so unspotted of the 
 world seemed Widow Baker herself as she sat in her 
 high-backed rocking-ch-air, with her snowy cap, and 
 her kerchief crossed on her breast, the great Bible 
 open on her knee, and lying on its ample page her 
 hands, clasped, and holding her silver-rimmed specta 
 cles. It could not be a mere coincidence that the 
 folded hands covered the words, " Though He slay me, 
 yet will I trust in him." 
 
118 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 The widow s eyes were turned to the wide pros 
 pect that spread itself beneath her windows; but -she 
 seemed to be looking far beyond over the blue horizon, 
 beyond the valley fields, where the thick stubble told 
 of the fruitful harvest ; beyond the comfortable farm 
 houses, sending up banners of hospitality from their 
 chimneys into the frosty air ; beyond the fire-tipped 
 steeple of the Hucklebury meeting-house ; beyond the 
 floating clouds and the crystal sky, to "a better 
 country, that is, an heavenly." 
 
 Deacon Peabody drove up to the gate, descended 
 from his shay, hitched his horse (a superfluous pro 
 ceeding), and walked into the house, shouting to the 
 widow as he passed the window, " Don t ye git up 
 now ; jest set there comfortable, 11 I ll open the door 
 myself." But she arose, nevertheless, and met him 
 at the threshold with a smile of grateful welcome. 
 
 44 This is very good of you, Deacon," she said, " to 
 think of me in your own sorrow." 
 
 44 Yes," said the deacon, not meaning to accept the 
 praise exactly, but following a habit of his, " yes, I 
 thought I d come over n. see how ye was gittin along. 
 Putty cold spell yesterday n to-day." 
 
 He looked at her as he spoke, with a sudden doubt 
 whether she had heard the whole of the evil tidings 
 concerning her own fate, the loss of her last son, 
 and the impending loss of home. Her placid air 
 told him little; and it was to cover his embarrassment 
 that he plunged into the subject, yet with an instinc- 
 
WJDOIV HAKER. 119 
 
 tive delicacy that the squire could never have imi 
 tated. 
 
 44 We re right lonesome down to our house, Miss 
 Baker, Susan n me ; V it occurred to my mind that 
 p raps you d be willin to come down V spend a stay 
 as long "s ye could, n keep us company, Susan n me. 
 Susan misses her ma n so do J. You was a good 
 friend to my Cynthy, n I cal late you d be a good 
 friend to her darter. S long s you expected to meet 
 Jotham agin, it was nateral to want to keep a home 
 for him. But " - 
 
 Here the deacon, remembering that perhaps she did 
 not know of Jotham s death, hesitated for an instant, 
 and then continued, " But ye know, if Jotham should 
 come back, he d be welcome too. Jotham s company 
 is worth more n his board any day." 
 
 44 Pliineas Peabody," said the widow earnestly, 
 4k you come like an answer to prayer! There s no 
 news of my boy ; and I should be wearied with wait 
 ing if I didn t know, that, wherever he is, he has not 
 forgotten his mother. But I am sure he would not 
 wish me to be a burden on my friends ; and that I 
 shall be, if I try to keep up the farm any longer. I m 
 too good a housekeeper, Deacon, not to have found 
 out that the squire has helped a good deal this year. 
 There s more oats and corn and potatoes than my half 
 of the crops, and yet there ll be nothing to pay inter 
 est or debts. If Jotham comes back, he ought to 
 start fair; and so I ve made up my mind that 
 
120 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 the old place will have to go. As for me well, 
 I ve thought over it a good deal, and I m not ashamed, 
 in my old .age, to be poor." 
 
 There were tears in her eyes, which the deacon did 
 not see, because of something in his own. " Sho 
 now; yes, yes," said the deacon hastily: "don t ye 
 worry about that. You jest come n visit with Susan 
 n me. That reminds me, I want you to kind o doc 
 tor up Susan a little. There s suthin the matter 
 with her. She misses her ma, V she don t have her 
 uzhal appetite." 
 
 A few days after this conversation, the deacon s 
 shay carried Widow Baker to her new home ; and the 
 deacon s lumber-wagon and ox-team followed with a 
 load of bedding and furniture, only ^ one load, 
 enough to furnish a single room. Close upon this 
 event followed an auction of all the remaining per 
 sonal property of the Baker family. The proceeds 
 amounted to very little, about two hundred dollars, 
 and the squire, somewhat to the surprise of the 
 community, claimed the money in payment of his 
 own advances during the past two years. It seemed 
 to contradict his previous generous behavior ; but the 
 squire explained his conduct to the deacon in few 
 words. " Two hundred dollars amounts to nothin , 
 said he; "but, s long s the widder s got any money, 
 we can t take her up n support her, accordin to law. 
 She d hev to spend all her money fust. You jest give 
 her a, hint, Deacon : if she wants any spendin money, 
 
WIDOW BAKFR. 
 
 she can draw on me, V I ll make it right, besides, in 
 my will." Moreover, it turned out that the squire 
 had bought all the household stuff himself: so it was 
 his o\vn money he was saving for the widow. 
 
 Xext came the auction of the farm under the fore 
 closure. That was bought by Lawyer Marigold, who, 
 being able without cash expenditure to offer the full 
 sum expressed in the mortgage, had no competitors. 
 After the sale, however, there was a friendly and 
 shrewd conversation between the lawyer and the 
 deacon, which resulted in the absolute purchase of 
 the farm by the latter for five hundred dollars. 
 
 Then came the queerest action of all, the sale of 
 the widow herself. This was not carried on with the 
 noise and publicity of an ordinary public sale. The 
 selectmen and freeholders simply talked the matter 
 over, and the few paupers of Hucklebury were 
 allotted to the lowest bidders for the privilege of 
 boarding them. As for the Widow Baker, there was 
 quite an animated competition for her. Plenty of 
 people were willing to take her at small profit, and a 
 few offered to accept the bare cost of her subsistence. 
 But when the squire and the deacon began to bid 
 below cost, "the boldest held their breath for a 
 time." They ran down the scale with prudence, yet 
 with firmness, until at last Phineas Peabody having 
 bi 1* two shillings a week equivalent to thirty-three 
 and one-third cents the squire said, " Wai, Deacon, 
 this is gittin redic lous. Ef ye don t look out, ye 
 
122 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 \\on t realize nothin at all. But, sence you re bound 
 to have the widder, I ll give up ; 11 I must say it s 
 the best thing for both on ye." 
 
 All of which was quite unknown to the good old 
 lady, who went on, in her quiet, cheerful resignation, 
 ** visiting" at the deacon s house. She did not know 
 that the money which the deacon gave her every Sun 
 day to put into the contribution-plate (aside from his 
 own contribution, let us add) was the price of her 
 board. But, if she had known it, her esteem for the 
 deacon would not have been diminished; for she 
 would have understood, as a stranger in Huckle- 
 bury could not have done, the combination of genuine 
 kindness with habitual business-like exactness and 
 economy which formed a part of the local character. 
 In fact, the deacon was more delicate in his generosity 
 than any of his neighbors would have been. It is 
 true, not even they ever alluded to the widow s pov 
 erty in her presence; but that was chiefly because it 
 did not occur to them as a matter separating them 
 and her in any way. Their treatment of the poor, 
 however disguised beneath the hard forms of a bar 
 gain, was in spirit more like the Christian commun 
 ism of the New 7 Testament than like the almsgiving 
 of ancient (and modern) Pharisees. 
 
 But, as a bargain, the boarding of the Widow 
 Baker was an unqualified success. It soon proved 
 that she, and not her host, bestowed benefaction. 
 What a blessing in the house is a serene and wise 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 123 
 
 soul ! What a contagious peace is that which is the 
 fruit of sorrow rightly borne ! The widow s un 
 worldly spirit was not that of a dreamer. She was 
 full of activity and helpfulness. She did not run 
 from barn to kitchen, and from attic to cellar, like 
 Susan ; yet her directing mind was everywhere, and 
 a new spirit of system and order began to pervade the 
 establishment. The deceased Mrs. Cynthia Peabody 
 had been one of those restless housekeepers who 
 " fuss " when they are well, and worry when they are 
 sick ; and Susan, as the result of her tuition, was apt 
 to bustle more, and plan less, than circumstances re 
 quired. It was wonderful to see how, after the com 
 mand of affairs had gradually lapsed into the old 
 lady s hands, every thing began to work smoothly 
 in doors and out. The very hired men on the farm 
 caught the new fashion. The yard and the barn 
 emulated the house in orderly neatness. The old 
 white horse and the shay and harness were curried, 
 washed, and oiled into new youth and beauty. The 
 deacon s shirt- bosoms, and, what was more important, 
 the deacon s brow, appeared without a crease or 
 wrinkle. And, as a consequence of this universal 
 decrease of friction, there was a saving of power in 
 the whole machinery of house and farm. A shrewd 
 observer like the deacon could not fail to see that the 
 presence of this motherly guest was not only pleasant 
 but profitable. And Squire Hawkins saw it too, and 
 summed it im very neatly, when, in reply to old 
 
124 CAMP AND CAlttN. 
 
 Westcott s remark that "the deacon couldn t be mak- 
 in much, boardin Granny Baker at two shillin a 
 week," he replied, " Wai, now, I dunno s Phiueas 
 Peabody kin make money so fast any other way as 
 by boardin Mis Baker at two shillin a week. I tell 
 ye, Westcott, godliness is profitable; V the kind 
 that Widder Baker has got is the quickest-pay in 
 investment y ever see." 
 
 This remark was made the week before Christmas, 
 when Westcott was distributing invitations to his 
 daughter s wedding with the gentleman from Boston. 
 Hence the squire s concluding observation was not 
 without point : " I won t undertake to say iiothin 
 about young Jotham ; but it s sartin sure as you live, 
 Westcott, your Nancy s missed the best mother-in-law 
 that ever was raised in these parts. They don t hev 
 em so good as that in Boston." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SUSAN PEABODY. 
 
 OF all who were blessed by the saintly and yet 
 practical influence of the Widow Baker, Susan was, 
 and had reason to be, the most grateful. She found 
 what she had hitherto greatly lacked in two direc- 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 125 
 
 tions, wise counsel in her daily duties on the one 
 hand, and sympathy for all her aspirations on the 
 other. It was Susan who first began to call the 
 widow "Mother Baker; " and Phineas and the whole 
 household followed her example. Indeed, it spread 
 through the town; for she seemed like a mother to 
 everybody. 
 
 No one ever heard her complain; and seldom did 
 she speak of the sorrows of the past. But somehow, 
 to Susan it was natural for her to talk about old 
 times, and that led to the mention of later and later 
 times, until at last all their conversations wound up 
 with Jotham, as all roads lead to Rome. The dif 
 ference between them was, that, while Mother Baker 
 gradually settled into the conviction that her son was 
 no longer on earth, and ranked him in her thoughts 
 with the host of dear ones that waited for her in the 
 new home that could not decay, nor be broken and 
 scattered, Susan vehemently insisted that Jotham 
 was still alive, and would return. " Two years is not 
 so very long," she used to urge. "People are often 
 missing for tw-o years, particularly in the East 
 Indies/ 
 
 And that creature, Nancy Westcott, had a letter 
 from Jotham in her pocket, and never told anybody ! 
 It was rather embarrassing to her; and like a good 
 many of us, when caught in the current of trouble 
 some circumstances, she drifted in the vague hope 
 that matters would somehow fix themselves. The 
 
126 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 chief elements of the case were these : first, she never 
 had loved him " so very much as all that; " secondly, 
 his letter did not arrive until she had as good as 
 accepted the Boston gentleman ; thirdly, its contents 
 were not satisfactory, as they told of shipwreck and 
 disaster, and offered no other hope than that of further 
 waiting until he could make a new start with " an 
 idea " that he had, for all the world just like his 
 shiftless father; fourthly, of course he had written 
 to his mother, and she knew all about it, and had 
 probably informed him that Miss Westcott had thrown 
 him overboard figuratively about the time that the 
 typhoon had done him the same service literally; 
 fifthly, why should she go to see his mother, just be 
 cause he asked it, or write a letter to meet him on his 
 arrival at Boston, which, of course, the Boston gentle 
 man would not approve? sixthly, she would decide 
 to-morrow or next day what to do about it; seventhly, 
 she forgot all about it, except so far as an occasional 
 momentary uneasiness might be called a recollection. 
 So it came to pass that those who longed to see the 
 living Jotham knew not of his coming, while she who 
 knew it was not at all desirous of it. Once she might 
 have told Susan as they met on the meeting-hous3 
 steps ; but Susan was " huffy," and carried her head 
 very high, which made Miss Westcott huffy likewise : 
 so they marched asunder, keeping their own secrets.- 
 " Heartless thing ! " soliloquized Susan. " She s mad," 
 thought Nancy, " because I m engaged, and she ain t. 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 127 
 
 Shouldn t wonder if she stands up for Jotham Baker : 
 she was always a friend o his n, nothin more n a 
 friend, though, that s one comfort. He s told me so 
 a dozen times." Even after discarding her humbler 
 lover, she didn t quite like to think of his " takin 
 up " with anybody else. 
 
 As for Susan, concealment was no "worm i the 
 bud" of her cheek. Since the coming of Mother 
 Baker she had grown contented and even happy. 
 She sang in the choir, and taught in the Sunday 
 school, went to sewing-society and quiltings, patron 
 ized the very young gentlemen (who could be kept at 
 a distance), made butter and pies, dried apples, pre 
 served quinces, and attended to other duties daily 
 and periodically, each. in its season, as the almanac 
 indicated, and with it all read poetry, and thought 
 a good deal about Jotham, in a sisterly manner, of 
 course, and merely by way of indignation at the wrong 
 that had been done him, and query whether he would 
 feel it so much, when he should come home, as to go 
 right away again in his despair. That would be 
 very wrong, and she would certainly tell him so. It 
 would be his duty to stay on his mother s account. 
 
 A fortnight before Christmas came the cards which 
 formally announced, what everybody knew, the cere 
 mony of Miss Westcott s wedding. It was to be the 
 sensation of the age for Hucklebury. Every thing 
 was to be imported from Boston for the occasion, 
 u down to the vittles and fiddlers." As Squire Haw- 
 
128 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 kins said, adding, in his disenchanting way, " the set- 
 tm -room is goin to be jest kivered with hemlock, n 
 I hev heerd that they intend to light up the stoop 
 n the yard." Of course everybody was. eager to be 
 invited ; and nobody was disappointed. Miss West- 
 cott would riot willingly omit a single witness to her 
 triumph. 
 
 Susan flung the cards into Mother Baker s lap, with 
 a passionate exclamation of contempt. " To think ! " 
 said she, " after the way she treated Jotham ! I won t 
 go near her horrid wedding ! " 
 
 " My dear," said the placid old lady, with that in 
 nocent air which old ladies can assume when they are 
 up to mischief, " you were a good friend to Jotharn, 
 and if he were alive " 
 
 " lie is alive ! I know he is," interrupted Susan. 
 
 " Well, do you want him to come home and marry 
 Nancy AVestcott against her will ? She was not bound 
 to him, you know ; and she has found somebody who 
 is better suited to her." 
 
 " How she could ever prefer that dandy to Jo 
 tham ! " said Susan hotly. 
 
 " We wouldn t, of course," replied Mother Baker. 
 " But there s no accounting for tastes; and, if you stay 
 away from her wedding on that account, won t folks 
 say you think too much of Jotham s mother ? " 
 
 This suggestion was sheer nonsense ; but it had a 
 startling effect upon Susan, who turned red and white 
 in a moment, then blushed again to think that she 
 
WIDOW VAKEK. 129 
 
 had blushed, and at last said that she was sure there 
 \vas something burning in the kitchen, whither she 
 departed with all speed, and proceeded to quench the 
 something that was burning by plunging her face into 
 a basinful of cold water. The active preparations 
 which began next day, in the way of clear-starching 
 and ironing, indicated sufficiently that Susan was 
 going to the party. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 JOTHAM. 
 
 IN due course of time Mr. Jotham Baker, follow 
 ing pretty close upon his letter, landed in Boston, 
 and, finding no news from home, made his way with 
 all haste to his native town of Hucklebury. It was 
 already dark when he arrived at the Center, where 
 the stage stopped. Curiously enough he couldn t 
 find a horse or a sleigh in the place. The tavern- 
 keeper (a stranger to him) said they were all gone to 
 AVestcott s. Very well : the rest of the way, a good 
 two-hours walk, he would have to make on foot; 
 but he stopped long enough to call at Lawyer Mari 
 gold s for the purpose of getting some news from 
 home. The girl who came to the door did not recog- 
 
130 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 nize him, for two good reasons. In the first place, 
 his full beard had changed his appearance : in the 
 second place, she had never seen him, with or without 
 a beard. So she told him merely that Mr. Marigold 
 had gone to Westcott s, like everybody else, and shut 
 the door in his face, with a promptness due to Hie 
 coldness of the wintry air. The reply was a sort of 
 omen to him ; and, vaguely wondering why everybody 
 had gone to Westcott s, lie started off at a swinging 
 pace over the crisp snow, bound for the same destina 
 tion. That is, he started to go home ; but the road 
 would lead him past A\ r estcott s. 
 
 Jotham, striding along the highway under the stars, 
 was certainly a comely young fellow. Two years of 
 adventure had made him stouter and browner, and 
 for a shipwrecked wanderer he had a strange well-to- 
 do appearance. People reduced to the extremity of 
 poverty don t have such substantial baggage as the 
 valise he had left in the Eagle Tavern, Ilucklebury 
 Center, nor wear such comfortable clothes as those in 
 which he was now hastening homeward. 
 
 His thoughts, as he swiftly pursued his solitary 
 way, were not altogether pleasant. First of all, he 
 reproached himself for having left his mother alone 
 two years before, and wondered whether Squire Haw 
 kins had been, according to promise, a true friend, to 
 her. Jotham did not doubt that his mother knew of 
 his return. To her he had written fully more than 
 once. AVhy she had never received a single letter 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 131 
 
 from him is one of the mysteries of the post-office, 
 which, dear reader, the author is sorry to say nobody 
 can clear up : hence it must be allowed to remain a 
 mystery, as it is far too late now to ask for its inves 
 tigation by a committee. Of all this Jotham was 
 ignorant, but tormented himself, as he walked, with 
 imagining what might have happened to his mother. 
 Once lie stopped suddenly what if she were dead ! 
 Then he .started again with violent speed, saying 
 aloud, "No, no, no!" as if such a protest could af 
 fect the irrevocable past. 
 
 Then he thought of Nancy Westcott. What a 
 strange thing it was, that, once out of her presence, 
 he had found it so hard to believe in her sincerity ! 
 That letter which he had written to try her now 
 seemed, on the whole, not a very honorable thing; 
 though he had thought it fair at the time. Instead 
 of telling her of his shipwreck, leaving her to infer 
 that he was ruined, and asking her if she could wait 
 for him a little longer, in the secret hope that she 
 would not stand the test, he should have confessed 
 frankly his own discovery that what he had thought 
 love w r as only a transitory glamour. 
 
 i4 Jotham," said Jotham, "you are well paid for 
 your shrewdness. You wanted to escape, and at the 
 same time have the credit of being constant, though 
 you pretended to me that it was your firm intention 
 and desire to remain true to the girl if she was true 
 to you. Now you ve got to face the music. What if 
 
132 CAMP AND CAlllN. 
 
 she is true to you ? I shouldn t wonder if she was ; 
 it s as likely as not ; it s very probable ; by gracious, 
 Jotham Baker, I believe it s so ! Ugh, \vhat a cold 
 night ! and yet this walking makes a fellow per 
 spire ! 
 
 " And there s Susan Peabody, Jotham : what do you 
 think of her? If you hadn t made a fool of yourself 
 with Nancy, you might have had some chance, per 
 haps, with Susan. But she despised you after you 
 went and gushed to her your silly nonsense about the 
 other one. Don t you recollect when you told her? 
 She never w T as the same to you after it came out who 
 the girl was. No wonder : she w r as disappointed in 
 you. / saw it, if you didn t. She had thought you 
 had more sense. Don t flatter yourself she ever loved 
 you, Jotham ; she never dreamed of that: but she re 
 spected you until you made a fool of yourself. And 
 you might have gone on from that to O you don 
 key ! " 
 
 He took a grim pleasure in this sarcastic soliloquy. 
 But self-castigation soon tires both the executioner 
 and the victim; and his muttered eloquence ended 
 in a sigh as he approached the Westcott mansion, 
 now 7 glorious with streaming lights, and musical with 
 voices and violins. The impulse of curiosity was too 
 strong to be resisted, and, crossing the yard unnoticed, 
 he gained a shadow r ed corner by one of the front- 
 windows, whence he could survey the festive scene. 
 
 Almost the first person he distinguished from the 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 133 
 
 gay confusion was a dazzling being in white satin, 
 with china-blue eyes, and flaxen locks erected into a 
 stupendous structure above them, surrounded with a 
 cloud of gauzy veil, and looking, on the \vhole, like 
 a child substituted at the last moment for some larger 
 bride, so that thj wedding-dress should not be wasted. 
 Only a second glance showed that the features were 
 not merely childish. There was full-grown triumph 
 in them, and a complete consciousness of the business 
 aspects of matrimony. Jotham recognized at once 
 the lady who would henceforward be known in Xew- 
 England phrase as "she that was Nancy Westcott." 
 The marriage was already over, and Miss Westcott 
 was Mrs. no, I won t give the name: I don t 
 mean to pain anybody if I can help it ; and the fact is, 
 that the Boston gentleman some years after, having 
 lost all his money by extravagance and speculation, 
 signed another Boston gentleman s name to a check, 
 and left the country. All the parties are dead long 
 ago ; but how do I know but they have relatives yet 
 living, relatives a great deal larger than I am? 
 
 In another instant Jotham saw Susan. Her dark 
 hair and earnest eyes ; her cheek, paler than when he 
 had looked upon it last ; her plain muslin dress, that 
 showed so little fashion, and so much taste ; every 
 thing about her, in short, made her a complete con 
 trast to the bride. To Jotham she seemed at once 
 more beautiful and more unapproachable than ever 
 before. There was a new expression on her face, 
 
134 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 which, of course, the foolish fellow could not read; 
 the work of sorrow and patience bearing fruit of 
 peace. All he felt was that she reminded him 
 strangely of his mother, and that somehow, in spite 
 of that, she was far beyond his reach. He could 
 never talk with brotherly freedom to that dignified 
 and lovely woman : he could only fall at her feet, 
 and lie there till she left him in disdain. 
 
 As for the dandy in a white cravat, on whose arm 
 "she that was Nancy AVestcott " promenaded through 
 the room, Jotham paid no attention to him ; and why 
 should we consider him? We always knew he would 
 turn out badly, didn t we? To our hero he served as 
 a slim piece of collateral evidence, corroborating the 
 white satin and veil and orange-blossoms. Who he 
 was didn t matter. He was not Jotham Baker Hal 
 lelujah ! 
 
 But man is ungrateful, and Jotham was not satis 
 fied with his happy escape. He had made the impor 
 tant discovery that he didn t want Nancy because he 
 did want Susan ; and, being a young man of decision, 
 he would not waste further time in useless repinings 
 at the window. And he turned resolutely away to 
 pursue his journey homeward. 
 
 But, as he passed the door, it was opened wide, and 
 an imposing sable gentleman in white cotton gloves 
 addressed him cordially with, u Second story front, 
 sah ! " This was one of the features imported for 
 the occasion from Boston, a darkey to open the door 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 135 
 
 whenever he heard steps approaching. And our 
 young man of decision, having determined to walk 
 straight by, and being suddenly tempted by this dark 
 and mysterious providence, was deflected ninety de 
 grees from his course, and walked straight in. 
 
 Now, it happened that Nancy Westcott, just before 
 coming down stairs to be married, had had occasion 
 to rummage her bureau for a smelling-bottle, or a 
 hair-pin, or something of that sort, and had suddenly 
 come upon Jotham s letter, which, as a well-regulated 
 person, she ought to have destroyed long before. 
 There were too many w r omen-folk fussing round to 
 make it safe to destroy it now : so, with a hopeless 
 glance at the fire, she thrust it into her dress, say 
 ing merely, and that not for anybody s hearing, 
 " Goodness gracious ! " Thus it came to pass that 
 she was actually married with Jotham s letter in her 
 bosom, a horribly improper state of affairs ! 
 
 During the solemn ceremony, which the parson made 
 long enough to permit, if not to necessitate, some wan 
 dering of the thoughts, she perceived Susan Peabody, 
 and made up her mind that Susan looked " stuck up," 
 and didn t half realize the splendor of the occasion. 
 Of course, if Susan was not suitably impressed, the 
 admiration of all the rest would not suffice. That s 
 human nature since the days of Haman. So, later 
 in the evening, in fact, just at the moment when 
 Jotham left the window, she got an opportunity to 
 worry Susan, and began to do it with feminine skill. 
 
136 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 "You haven t been introduced to my husband, 
 Susan. You d like him, I know. He says you re 
 the most distangy woman in the room. But you an 
 me mustn t be rivals agin. Hev you heard from 
 Jo from Mr. Baker lately? " 
 
 This was even more cruel than Nancy intended ; for 
 she really supposed the fact of Jotham s return was 
 known to his friends, though she had never told of it, 
 because she did not care to reveal her recent recep 
 tion of his letter. It was much simpler to let her 
 friends say, as they did, that there never had been 
 any thing between him and her, at least, nothing 
 more than a flirtation. 
 
 But Susan was on her guard, and Nancy was no 
 match for her. Without a sign of any emotion, not 
 even scorn she said slowly, " Mr Baker has reason 
 to congratulate himself." 
 
 That made Nancy " as mad as fire." She under 
 stood by it more than was meant ; for it led her to 
 suppose that Jotham, having been informed of her 
 faithlessness, had pretended he was glad to be rid of 
 her. Her breast heaved with passion, and fortunately 
 (the bridal dress being a tight fit) that very heaving 
 made her aware of Jotham s letter : otherwise there 
 might have been a " scene." But this enabled her to 
 restrain her wrath, and to say, in tones that attracted 
 no attention from the rest of the company, " Perhaps 
 he tries to make you think so, Miss Feabody. But 
 that ain t the way he writes to me! " Whereat she 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 137 
 
 pulled out the letter, thrust it into Susan s hand, and 
 sailed away with her nose in the air, inwardly con 
 scious that she had done a very foolish thing, and not 
 at all aware that it was the best thing that could have 
 been done for everybody but herself. 
 
 Susan recognized the handwriting ; seized the let 
 ter; forgot Nancy, the company, every thing; made 
 her escape blindly out of the room ; and rushed up 
 stairs to the ladies dressing-room (second story back), 
 clasping the letter in her hand. Jotham was alive! 
 
 Nobody was in the rotmi. She could read the letter 
 unobserved. In her tumultuous happiness she was 
 about to kiss it; but her eye fell on the address, 
 "Miss Nancy Westcott " (she had forgotten for a mo 
 ment to whom the letter had been written). As for 
 kissing "Miss Nancy Westcott " -that was a little 
 too much. But she did open the paper, and put to 
 her lips a carefully-selected spot on the inside, which 
 bore the words, "Yours truly, Jotham Baker." Then 
 she hastily read the letter; and not even its apparent 
 testimony that he still loved the heartless creature 
 down stairs could silence in her heart the singing 
 voice, "Jotham is alive! " 
 
 Meanwhile the young man himself had left the 
 window, walked slowly, though decidedly (as I have 
 before mentioned), to the front-door and into the 
 hall, and was at this moment at the top of the stairs, 
 on his way to the second story front; so that, when 
 Susan raised her eyes from the perusal of his letter, 
 she saw him passing the door. 
 
138 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 With a cry of joy she sprang forward, calling his 
 name; but, as he turned, she recollected what must 
 be his present anguish, and said only, holding out 
 both hands, " O Jotham, I m so sorry for you ! " 
 
 Alas ! what a comedy of errors it was ! Poor 
 Jotham, already in a maze of conflicting emotions, 
 lost his head entirely at hearing her friendly words, 
 and burst into an incoherent explanation about Xancy 
 and his own affections, out of which confusion 
 emerged presently a declaration of love to Susan. 
 This he made still worse bj* dropping on his knees 
 before her, as he had just been wildly dreaming he 
 would do some day. He was a handsome fellow; but 
 no fellow ought to kneel down in his overcoat. He 
 deserved to be laughed at for his pains. But Susan 
 was in no mood for laughing. Her maidenly pride 
 burned hotly in cheek and eye. " Mr. Baker," she 
 said with bitter politeness, "now you re down, per 
 haps you will have the goodness to pick up that let 
 ter. Nancy gave it to me, and I will take this oppor 
 tunity to return it to the writer." 
 
 She watched him with un moving look as he clutched 
 the letter, recognized it, rose, and staggered from the 
 room. Down stairs he rushed, and past the astounded 
 doorkeeper, into the open air. She listened until she 
 heard the bang with which the door closed behind 
 him; then, having nothing else in the world to do, 
 Susan Peabody fainted away, and fell on the spot 
 where he had knelt. 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 139 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HOW THE WIDOW INTERFERED. 
 
 JOTHAM felt, as he reached the road, as if he had 
 escaped from a burning house in which was every 
 thing he held dear in life. But his second thought 
 was of his mother. He had her to live for, at least; 
 and to her he would devote himself. So he hastened 
 up the hill-road, past the squire s farm, and on to the 
 well-remembered house where he expected to find 
 her. It was always a rather lonesome place ; but to 
 night, as he approached it, and saw neither light in 
 the windows, nor living thing about the yard, a chill 
 struck his heart. The barking of a dog, or the de 
 liberate rising of a cow disturbed in her repose by his 
 passage, would have been most welcome. His knock 
 ing at the door called forth no answer; and when, 
 after fruitless shouting, he lifted a window-sash, 
 climbed into the sitting-room, struck a light, and 
 found the place dismantled and empty, except for 
 that " litter " peculiar to an abandoned room, which 
 told him more plainly than any thing else that his 
 neat and efficient mother could no longer be in au 
 thority there, the revulsion was overpowering. The 
 stalwart young fellow dropped his match, and, lean 
 ing in the darkness against the mantel-piece, cried as 
 
140 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 if his heart would break. This blow was indeed the 
 worst of all. 
 
 A moment later he was again out of doors, and 
 rushing down the hill-road at a terrible pace. As he 
 passed the lane that turned down to the squire s 
 house, a sleigh came up with much clangor of silvery 
 bells, bringing the squire and Mrs. Hawkins, who 
 were just returning from the party at Westcott s. 
 
 "Jerusalem!" ejaculated the hearty squire, " ef 
 that ain t Jotham Whoa, there ! Why, Jptham, 
 how d ye do? Where did ye come from? n how on 
 airth but here! git right in, there s room for ye; 
 come right along to the house." 
 
 "The house is empty," said Jotham in quick, 
 hoarse tones. "What has happened? Where s my 
 mother?" 
 
 " She s boardin at Deacon Peabody s," replied the 
 squire ; " n she looks twenty years younger for t. 
 You jest come along. Ye can t see your mother to 
 night ; n ye mustn t see her nohow, till I ve put ye up 
 to the news." 
 
 So Jotham spent the rest of a long evening and the 
 night at the Hawkins s, and slept soundly in spite of 
 his sorrows. The squire told him all about every 
 thing, dwelling particularly on Susan and her affec 
 tion for his mother, and much surprised that Jotham 
 regarded that subject with evident pain. 
 
 "What s the matter with ye, Jotham?" pursued 
 the squire. " Now, I m a plain man, n I go to the 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 141 
 
 pint. It ain t no use for you to worry about Nancy 
 Westcotfc though she d be a pretty good match, 
 jest now, for a feller as poor s you be." 
 
 " I don t care a sixpence for Nancy Westcott," in 
 terrupted Jotham sullenly, "and I m not so poor as 
 you think." 
 
 " Why, the hull cargo was lost, I cal late : them 
 companies wouldn t a paid the insurance without 
 proof o that " 
 
 "Exactly. They paid tlic insurance, and my goods 
 were insured, as well as the rest. I knew that would 
 be all right, and I bought a home cargo on the 
 strength of it, and made enough by the voyage to 
 give me a good start." 
 
 " Ginger an spices haft riz," said the squire thought 
 fully. " I read that in The Advertiser last week. 
 Dew tell! Wai, Jotham, I m glad on t. But don t 
 ye go to buy in back the old farm : it ll ruin ye, sure." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Jotham, " I shall buy it at 
 once, and sell the mine-hill to a man who is coming 
 up from Boston right away to look at it." 
 
 " What! " cried the squire, " gold, arter all? " 
 
 "No; granite." 
 
 " Wai, there s plenty o that on t," said the squire. 
 
 "Yes; and it will be the best place for a quarry 
 that can be found when the branch railroad is built. 
 But I don t care much about it now, except for 
 mother s sake," added Jotham with a sigh. 
 
 The squire looked at him shrewdly. "My boy," 
 
142 CAMP AND CAJUN. 
 
 said he, "there s somethin the matter between you 
 an Susan, n ye d better tell me all about it. I ain t 
 one that ll talk about it, like the women-folks." 
 (Mrs. Hawkins had retired, or this remark would 
 have been suppressed.) 
 
 Jotham made a clean breast on this invitation, first 
 handing over the unlucky letter as a text, and then 
 furnishing a full commentary upon it. At the con 
 clusion, the squire whistled reflectively, and at last 
 delivered his opinion : 
 
 "It looks like a bad job, Jotham; but I ve seen 
 wuss. Susan was glad to see ye stick a pin there! 
 An she was mad to hev ye make a fool o yourself, n 
 try to made a fool o her. Wai, now, look at it cool 
 an reasonable, n who wouldn t be? I tell ye what," 
 continued the squire, warming up as he went on, 
 "it s all right, an so you ll see. You go to bed ! " 
 
 Meanwhile Susan, whom we left "all in a heap" 
 on the floor of the "second story back," had recovered 
 from her faint without help, and without attracting 
 attention. Of course her first act was to scrub and 
 rub her pale cheeks till they glowed, replace and 
 tighten various hair-pins (which always become loose 
 in moments of emotion), and obliterate the traces of 
 her agitation Then she went down stairs, found her 
 father, and persuaded him to take her home, no 
 difficult matter, since he was bored with the new 
 fangled stiffness of the entertainment. On the way 
 they spoke little. Phineas was occupied with driving, 
 and only once put a question to his daughter : 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 
 
 " Hope ye had an interestin time, Susan? " 
 
 " Yes, very interesting," said she, and lapsed again 
 into silence. But her thoughts were busy enough, 
 recalling painfully the strange behavior and incohe 
 rent speech of Jotharn, and wondering whether she 
 had not done him some injustice. That letter of his 
 to Xancy was not so very loving. There was a mys 
 tery in it ; and an old friend should not be discarded 
 without an opportunity to explain his conduct. Per 
 haps he was at this moment with his mother. He was 
 an affectionate and dutiful son, at least. " Couldn t 
 you drive a little faster, father? " said Susan. 
 
 But on arrival she found that Mother Baker was in 
 bed, and that nobody had called. She kept the secret 
 of Jotham s return. Why should she say any thing 
 to her father about it ? Everybody would know it in 
 the morning. But, when the morning came, she was 
 thoughtful enough to prepare the widow for the joy 
 ful surprise of meeting her son, assuring her that he 
 had really returned, and would soon make his appear 
 ance, but declining to tell how she had got the news, 
 except that she had heard it at the party. 
 
 When Jotham knocked at the door, it was Susan, 
 much to his embarrassment, who opened it. He 
 began an apology for his intrusion, which she checked 
 with a gesture. "Your mother is expecting you/ 
 said she, pointing to the door of the room in which 
 the widow was sitting, and withdrew, to fidget in the 
 kitchen ; while Jotham, forgetting for the moment all 
 
144 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 woes and embarrassment, entered to clasp in arms of 
 unalterable affection and perfect joy the darlingest 
 old mother that ever lived. 
 
 Widow Baker was so glad to get her son back on 
 any terras, that she needed little to satisfy her curiosity 
 concerning his long absence and silence. When he 
 alluded to letters he had written her, she did not tell 
 him, in this first happy hour, that she had never re 
 ceived them. When he mentioned to her his plan 
 about the old place, which he had already found he 
 could buy back, and which would be, after all, a 
 source of profit to the family, her face lit up with a 
 proud smile such as the late Colonel Baker might 
 well have returned to enjoy. " That s what your 
 father always said," was her comment. Dear soul ! 
 she had put sympathy, if not faith, in every one of 
 her husband s schemes ; raid it was to her simple 
 affection a sort of vindication of his misunderstood 
 and depreciated career, to have his gold-mine turn 
 out at least a granite-quarry. 
 
 "Well, my son," said the widow at last, "the dea- 
 con ll be glad to have you stop here for a while, until 
 you can set up a house of your own. lie told me 
 that when he first invited me. I wouldn t have come 
 to a house, you know, where my boy would not have 
 been welcome." This was the good lady s artful 
 approach to a subject that lay near her heart. 
 
 " The deacon is a true friend," replied Jotham, 
 " and I shall tell him so. But I I d rather not stop 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 145 
 
 in his house. Don t you think you could visit some 
 where else, say, at Squire Hawkins s?" 
 
 "Why, what should I do without Susan? " was the 
 deeply innocent reply ; to which Jotham made a 
 somewhat testy rejoinder : 
 
 "You ll have to do without Susan sooner or later,- 
 and you might as well begin ! " 
 
 Now, by this time, Susan, having rattled about the 
 kitchen vigorously, doing nothing, for half an hour, 
 had found it absolutely necessary to come to the 
 sitting-room. She wanted a "holder" to protect her 
 fair fingers in lifting a kettle from the fire; and the 
 holder in the kitchen didn t suit her no, not at all. 
 But there was one in the sitting-room that would suit 
 and that one she must have. So, with a timid pre 
 liminary knock on the half-open door, she walked in. 
 The widow watched her keenly. 
 
 " Susan," she said, " our Jotham has come ! " 
 
 " Yes," replied Susan, with a beating heart, and a 
 voice far too unsteady for the leading soprano of the 
 Ilucklebury choir, " I ve met Mr. Baker already. I 
 I hope he s very well." Upon this she went to 
 wards the fireplace, where the " holder " hung on a 
 nail, and, before she got there, forgot what she was 
 going for, and so, coming to a dead stop, looked into 
 the fire with preposterous earnestness and a great de 
 sire to cry. Jotham, on his part, studied a spot on 
 the floor till it began to revolve before his eyes in an 
 amazing way, and then said hastily that he thought 
 he had better go and attend to some other matters. 
 
H6 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 " Don t go on my account," said the young girl at 
 the fire ; at which Jotham stopped short, and the 
 situation was worse than ever. But the widow, bless 
 her! was more than equal to it. She divined the 
 state of affairs better than if they had told her all 
 about it, though that s not saying much ; for, if they 
 had undertaken to tell her, a pretty mess they would 
 have made of it with their confusions and cross pur 
 poses and reservations and pique and embarrassments. 
 
 " I want Jotham to visit with us a few days, till he 
 gets ready a place of his own, for him and me," 
 said she ; " but he thinks he had better not." 
 
 " I suppose he is right," remarked Miss Peabody to 
 the fire." 
 
 " He wants me to go and stay somewhere else with 
 him," continued the widow. 
 
 Susan turned half round, with a sudden movement, 
 and then resolutely back to her former position, say 
 ing earnestly, 
 
 " No, no ! you mustn t leave us. Nobody can do 
 without you, dear Mother Baker! * 
 
 It was strange that she could not even face her 
 dearest friend, wasn t it? But the fact is, she had 
 come in a hurry, and her handkerchief was missing, 
 as handkerchiefs are so apt to be at the very minute 
 when they are worth their weight in gold. 
 
 " If anybody needs me, then my only son needs me 
 most," said the old lady, going over to Jotham, and 
 putting her thin hands on his broad shoulder. 
 " Where he had better not stay, I will not stay." 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 147 
 
 "Then he must stay," said the voice by the fire. 
 " He needn t go on my account." 
 
 " Mother," interrupted the subject of this dialogue, 
 shaking off his wretched timidity, and speaking in a 
 straightforward, commanding way, that settled things 
 at once in his favor (though he was not aware of 
 that), " don t trouble Miss Peabody any further. She 
 has reason to think I have treated her with some 
 indignity, though she is wrong: I would die first." 
 
 " Of course," said the widow heartily. " But Susan 
 don t believe any such thing. Why, she can t: it s 
 impossible. O Susan ! shake hands with Jotham, 
 and tell him so yourself." 
 
 Susan held out her hand with averted face; but 
 the young man was bent on no half-way measures. 
 " No," he said imperatively. " Hear me out. She is 
 wrong in her thought of me, though I am to blame 
 for her mistake ; but she is right in saying (as she 
 did before you spoke of leaving here) that I had bet 
 ter not stay in this house." 
 
 Miss Peabody had withdrawn again her neglected 
 hand, and, having no better use for it, was pressing 
 it against her heart, a most insipid and unprofitable 
 use of both hand and heart. Mr. Jotham Baker, 
 having the floor, went on, as is the custom of orators, 
 addressing the chair, but meaning to be heard by the 
 audience : 
 
 "For I love her I love her dearly; and I will 
 not stay in her house, or touch her hand, or look into 
 
148 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 her face because I couldn t bear it. I don t want 
 to be old friends again." 
 
 " You d better stay," said Susan feebly. " Your 
 mother wants you to sta}^." 
 
 The Widow Baker smiled, as a general might smile, 
 who, just as he was about to order a retreat, should 
 see through his field-glass the white flag hoisted by 
 the enemy. But Jotham had no field-glass, and went 
 on with his last despairing volley. 
 
 " No," he said impatiently, " it is impossible. If 
 if you felt as I do, you would understand me. But I 
 do not deserve to be utterly despised ; and I think, 
 Miss Peabody, that I ought to explain to you before I 
 go"- 
 
 Susan shook her shoulders. "I don t want any 
 explanation," she said. 
 
 "And / do" said desperate Jotham. "I claim it 
 as a right: it is my last chance, and I will be heard." 
 
 That obstinate young woman put her fingers in her 
 ears, and that obstinate young man went right on 
 addressing the chair; and the chair, that is to say, 
 Widow Baker, positively laughed in his face. The 
 sublime was evidently sliding fast facilis descensus 
 - into the ridiculous. 
 
 Now, this scene would not have lasted half as long 
 if Susan had had a handkerchief. When a person 
 has been crying ever so little, and is obliged by cir 
 cumstances to dry before the fire, without the aid of 
 cambric or bandanna, the conversation must be pro- 
 
WIDOW BAKER. 149 
 
 longed, to give that person a reasonable time. But 
 if the person begins again why, then all subter 
 fuges are in vain. Thus it came to pass that Susan, 
 whose fingers were not so very tightly pressed into 
 her ears, heard Jotham walk towards the door. The 
 blundering, lucky fellow ! Just as he was about to 
 resign the game, he gave checkmate. For Susan 
 Peabody turned like a flash, and called him by name 
 no mistake about it, and no " Mr." a good, clear, 
 unfaltering " Jotham ! " 
 
 But he was smitten with blindness. Not even the 
 sight of her, blushing, tearful, radiant, holding out 
 both hands towards him, could make him understand. 
 
 " Then you will hear my explanation ? " said stupid 
 Jotham. 
 
 " I tell you," said she, stamping with her little 
 foot, "I have heard enough, I won t have any ex 
 planations ! " 
 
 " But before I go " pursued the incorrigible 
 Jotham. 
 
 u Mr. Jotham Baker," said Susan, laying down 
 the proposition with the air of a teacher whose pa 
 tience was exhausted, and emphasizing it with a 
 didactic forefinger, " your mother and I are 
 never going to let you go away from 
 us as long as you live : so, there ! " 
 
 Here the Widow Baker, who had so wisely inter 
 fered, perceived with equal wisdom that her interfer 
 ence was no longer called for. And her departure 
 
150 
 
 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 from the room cuts short my story at this most 
 interesting point; for, although I am very intimate 
 with all the parties, Susan and Jotham never would 
 repeat to me and I am utterly unable to imagine 
 the conversation that followed. 
 
SKETCHES OF WESTERN TRAVEL, 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 
 
 I. 
 
 AN EXPLORING PARTY. 
 
 (AST summer 1 two of us found ourselves, on 
 professional duty connected with " the de 
 velopment of the mineral resources " of our 
 country, in the Territory of Montana, to 
 wit, the capital thereof, Virginia City ; and there we 
 did devise a journey up the Madison Valley to the 
 Spouting Geysers, over the mountains to the lake, 
 canon, cataracts, and hot-springs of the Yellowstone, 
 and so on, as events might determine; traversing, in 
 short, that large area of nearly four thousand square 
 miles, of which Congress has wisely made a Na 
 tional Park. Our party was not a full-fledged affair, 
 with wings of military escort, and claws of tools and 
 instruments for detailed scientific investigation, but 
 an assemblage of volunteers, comprising no small 
 amount of original and unconventional character. 
 
 1 The summer of 1871. 
 
 153 
 
154 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 Numerous eminent citizens of Virginia City had 
 enthusiastically declared their intention of joining 
 our company, and we reasonably expected to invade 
 the mountain solitudes with a great array of rank 
 and intellect. But, when the critical day arrived, 
 there was an amazing pressure of business, legal and 
 otherwise, iu the usually somewhat dull town, which 
 hindered every one of our distinguished friends from 
 starting. Far be it from me to suggest that a very 
 recent raid of the Sioux into the Gal latin Valley 
 had any thing to do with this unanimous inability 
 to go where glory waited. That could not be; for 
 did not each reluctantly declining friend take pains 
 to add, " There ll be no danger, I guess, where you 
 are going. You just keep a good lookout, and you ll 
 get through all right, I guess. Got plenty of arms 
 and ammunition, haven t you? " 
 
 Under these inspiriting encouragements we pre 
 pared to set forth. There were six of us men, eight 
 of us horses, and one of us mule. Gilman Sawtelle, 
 the guide, will forgive me for bringing him before the 
 public by name. I can not rank him with any of the 
 typical pioneers, from Leatherstocking down, who 
 have been familiar in novels of Western life. He 
 affects no singularity of dress or speech; indulges 
 not in long and silent laughter; prefers not an old 
 single-barreled, small-bore, muzzle-loading Kentucky 
 rifle to the modern arms of precision ; does not pre 
 tend to see in the night as well as in the daytime, or 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 155 
 
 to follow a trail where there isn t any; misses a shot 
 now and then, at long range, like any other honest 
 man ; reads books and newspapers ; and does not de 
 spise his kind. A stalwart, blond, blue-eyed, jovial 
 woodsman is he, w T ho for years has kept a solitary 
 ranch on the bank of Henry s Lake, some sixty miles 
 from the settlements. Half a dozen well-built log- 
 houses constitute his establishment. There is a com 
 fortable dwelling, a stable, a work-shop, store-houses 
 for skins and game, and an ice-house. Mr. Saw- 
 telle s principal business has been spearing trout, 
 packing them in ice, hauling them in wagons to 
 Virginia City, and even as far as Helena, and dis 
 posing of them at handsome prices to the busy popu 
 lation who haven t time to fish for themselves. A 
 farm supplies him with vegetables and grain ; the 
 valleys afford him excellent hay; and land and water 
 all about him swarm with game of every kind. 
 
 Mr. Thrasher the photographer is another charac- t 
 ter of public interest, whom I will not disguise under 
 a fictitious name, because the one he wears by right 
 exactly suits him. He invests the profession of 
 photography with all the romance of adventure. 
 What other men will do for self-defense, or excite 
 ment, or a positive reward, he does for a "negative. * 
 No mountain is too high for him, if there s a "vie\v" 
 from the top. No perilous precipice daunts him, if 
 it is just the place for his camera. If there is a 
 picturesque region where nobody has been, thither 
 
156 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 he hastens, with company if company offers ; alone 
 if need be, he and his pack-mule, carrying the pre 
 cious chemicals and glasses. Sometimes, after a 
 long and arduous expedition, that mule will roll 
 down a steep mountain-face, and smash every thing 1 . 
 Then Thrasher begins again, nothing daunted. It is 
 a sight to see him, when, struck by the beauty of 
 some sudden vista, he halts, and rapidly unpacks, 
 erecting his tripod, and hanging to the bough of 
 some convenient tree his black-cloth laboratory. In 
 a trice the plate is prepared, the view is taken : 
 Thrasher buries his head, ostrich-like, in the dark 
 chamber, exposing recklessly, as he kneels at his 
 work, the dilapidated rear of his corduroys. Then 
 speedily comes from the black tent a muffled shout 
 of triumph, and the artist emerges backward on all- 
 threes, holding up a dripping negative for general 
 admiration. Or perhaps it doesn t suit him, and the 
 boys are told to go on ; he will stay and " wrastle " 
 with that view; and an hour after camp is made, 
 when all have subsided into the delights of dolce far 
 nientc, supper being over, and guard not begun, 
 along comes Thrasher with "that cussed mule," who 
 will persist in trying to carry her unwieldy pack be 
 tween precisely the trees that stand too close for 
 passage, Thrasher, I say, weary, hungry, irate, but 
 victorious. 
 
 I may mention here, that, after we had been sev 
 eral weeks in the mountains, Mr. Thrasher became 
 
WONDEES OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 157 
 
 entirely unmanageable. He had so many views to 
 take that there was no hope of getting him back 
 to civilization until his chemicals were used up and 
 he had provided a desperately large stock. So on 
 the canon of the Yellowstone we left him, with Saw- 
 telle ; while the rest of us rode home without him. 
 I have heard since that lie got " burnt out" by a for 
 est fire, losing every thing but Ids negatives; and that 
 after returning to Virginia City, and procuring a new 
 outfit, he posted back again, this time alone, to " do 
 the rest of that country, or bust." 
 
 O Thrasher! Thy mule, with the sharp-pointed 
 legs of the camera-tripod projecting from her stern, 
 was unpleasant to the next-following horseman when 
 she backed in a narrow defile ; nor was it altogether 
 delightful to get up prematurely in order to form 
 part of one of thy frequent "sunrise scenes :" but 
 thou wert most excellent company on the march and 
 in camp, and thy energy and enthusiasm were sub 
 lime. May I not fail to fare with thee again, some 
 day, through wild and rugged ways, pursuing with 
 tireless steps the spirit of beauty to her remotest 
 hiding-place ! 
 
 Another member of the party was Mr. Hardpan, 
 of the editorial staff of "The Weekly Alloutdoors," 
 published at Bucksborough, Montana, a fine speci 
 men of the frontier "local," possessing the wide 
 awake characteristics of the city species, but superior 
 in point of manliness. Interviewing people against 
 
158 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 their will, following with intent nose the trails of 
 scandal, picking up scraps of information around 
 the doors of public offices, and the like occupations, 
 tend to obliterate in the city reporter somewhat of 
 the gentleman, and more of the man. But the habit 
 of traversing mountains and valleys in search of 
 news, interviewing the hardy miners and hunters in 
 the gulches or by the camp-fire, " prospecting " en 
 route for wash-gold or quartz (for your Western 
 editor has always been at some time a miner him 
 self, and can not pass black sand or rusty rock with 
 out "just taking a look at hsr"), not disdaining to 
 follow the fleet deer, and impale the wrigglesorne 
 trout, nor shirking the due share of danger before 
 the grizzly or the Sioux, this life, I say, makes 
 quite another man of the reporter. Paul Pry and 
 Ilardpan have nothing in common : in fact, one 
 would not have imagined that the gentleman from 
 " The Weekly Alloutdoors " was an emissary of the 
 press at all. If he "took notes," it was in secret, as 
 a gentleman should. He has since immortalized us 
 all in a highly embellished account of the journey; 
 but he inflicted upon us no preliminary tortures 
 during the trip, and the picture he has painted is as 
 delicately and truthfully flattering as one of Hunt- 
 ington s portraits, or Sarony s photographs. It is a 
 comfort to " sit " to an artist who will see to it that 
 freckles are omitted, and that a pleasing expression 
 is secured at any cost. For the rest, Hardpan was a 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 159 
 
 jolly companion, who obtruded no "shop-talk," and 
 endeared himself to all by his extraordinary skill in 
 the preparation of " dough-gods" and "bull-whacker s 
 butter," two triumphs of camp-cw/sme not to be 
 compassed by any thing short of genius. 
 
 The other three of us decline to be publicly por 
 trayed; but we permit it to be said, in all modera 
 tion, that we possessed among us all the beauties 
 of form and feature, all the virtues of character, and 
 all the varieties of learning and accomplishment, 
 that anybody ever found in anybody. What one 
 of us lacked another was sure to have until that 
 woeful day when none of us possessed so much as a 
 pipeful of "Lone Jack;" but this deficiency was 
 abundantly remedied as soon as we returned to the 
 settlements, and we now present to the pen of the 
 eulogist our pristine perfection. 
 
 But how can we omit to mention Sawtelle s dog? 
 ugliest, hardiest, most enthusiastic and affectionate, 
 most ardent in the chase, most patient in hunger, 
 and insensible to fatigue, of all the canine race, a 
 dog of no distinguished lineage, and no advantage 
 in early education, but full of an excellent spirit 
 and a companionable soul. The enthusiasm with 
 which that dog would attempt the impossible, 
 chasing grouse upon the wing, or swimming fiercely 
 after ducks that contemptuously waited for him till 
 he almost touched them, and then, just as he raised 
 his yelp of anticipated triumph, dove under him, and 
 
160 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 re-appeared behind him, to his blank bewilderment, 
 the brisk enthusiasm with which he would essay these 
 feats, stimulated every day by the remembrance of 
 past failures to wilder racing and louder yelping, was 
 a moral to mortals. Some day, I am persuaded, that 
 dog will catch a grouse upon the wing, or a duck upon 
 the wave. Nothing can be impossible forever to such 
 perseverance. He rejoiced in several names, being 
 chiefly called Bob, for short, in allusion to his tail. 
 
 With the remainder of our party, that is to say, 
 with the horses and the mule, w 7 e began to get ac 
 quainted very early in the journey. The first day s 
 march was a succession of packings, chasings, shout 
 ings, draggings, and buckings, from the time we were 
 escorted out of Virginia City by the merchant-princes, 
 legal luminaries, and small boys of the town, until 
 we made camp on the other side of the "divide," 
 after dark, cold and hungry and tired, by the rush 
 ing waters of the Madison. It took some time, how 
 ever, to learn all the peculiarities of all the animals, 
 and to produce in them the sure conviction that we 
 knew their tricks and their manners. One ancient 
 white steed, who was used to carrying packs, infected 
 the rest with his wisdom. He taught them to swell 
 up when they were " sinched," so that the girths 
 might slip afterward ; to lie down and roll with their 
 packs on; to start on wild prairie gallops without 
 warning, and work their burdens around their bel 
 lies, where they could be conveniently kicked ; to 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 161 
 
 "buck," when they could thereby throw any body or 
 any thing into a river; and at night, when they were 
 turned out for rest and grazing, to start in solemn 
 procession for home, and travel a dozen miles before 
 daylight. But that sublime being, man, is more than 
 a match for that noble animal, horse; and due subor 
 dination was ere long established. Did time permit, 
 I would gladly sing the praises of the " diamond 
 hitch," that mystery of ropes and running-knots, 
 which, once properly adjusted upon a well-balanced 
 and well-settled load, defies the cunning of the equine 
 or asinine bearer, and will not even yield to a pine- 
 tree, tearing and scraping against it in the forest. 
 But we have lingered too long already over the inci 
 dentals of our trip though, in truth, they are rather 
 to be reckoned as essentials; for the destination of 
 a journey like ours may be \vherever you please, if 
 you are well fitted out for the march and the camp ; 
 but without good company, good arms, and a knowl 
 edge of the "diamond hitch," one had better not start 
 at all. 
 
162 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 II. 
 UP THE MADISON. 
 
 As I have hinted, our party was escorted out of 
 Virginia City by the friendly population, and took 
 its -way over the divide which separates that town 
 from the valley of the Madison. And here, O un 
 suspecting reader ! shall be sprung upon thee a trap 
 of instruction. But be not dismayed, the agony shall 
 be brief. And, moreover, there is no dread examina 
 tion awaiting you beyond, to reveal your wicked 
 neglect if you skip the next paragraph altogether. 
 Geography is not pleasant, but grievous; yet is it 
 necessary to him who would travel, whether in per 
 son or by sympathetic imagination. Wherefore 
 listen : 
 
 The two great river-systems of the Missouri-Mis 
 sissippi, on the one hand, and the Snake-Columbia, 
 on the other, have their highest sources close to 
 gether, in the Rocky Mountains, where their upper 
 waters even pass each other in opposite directions, 
 like the fingers of two hands, employed in the fasci 
 nating game of 
 
 " Here s the church, and here s the steeple: 
 Open the door, and there s the people! " 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 163 
 
 Persons who do not know this game will be bewil 
 dered by the illustration, just as persons who enter 
 for the first time the country of which I speak are 
 bewildered when they find one stream running north 
 for the Gulf of Mexico, and the next running south 
 for the Pacific Ocean. For this perplexity, dear 
 reader, there are only two remedies : you must either 
 learn the game, or visit the region. 
 
 It is the Missouri system which chiefly concerns us 
 here ; and it must suffice to say of it that four large 
 rivers rise not far from the north-west corner of Wyo 
 ming Territory, and flow for some distance northward. 
 Three of them the Jefferson, the Madison, and the 
 Gallatin unite at Gallatiu City, Montana, to form 
 the Missouri, which continues northward to near the 
 British boundary, which it avoids by a great bend to 
 the east, after which it gradually assumes a south 
 east course to the Mississippi. The fourth river is 
 the Yellowstone, which bends on its own hook, so 
 to speak, before reaching the Missouri, and finally 
 joins that river on the borders of Dakota. In the 
 upper part of their course, therefore, the valleys of 
 the Jefferson, Madison, Gallatin, and Yellowstone, 
 are in a general way, parallel, and their order from 
 west to east is indicated by the order in which I 
 have named them. The Gallatin, being the shortest, 
 rises farther north than the others, and the head 
 waters of the Madison are separated from the Yel 
 lowstone Lake, which may be called the head of the 
 
164 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 Yellowstone, by mountain-ranges only. To traverse, 
 mainly by valley routes, the geysers of the Upper 
 Madison (or Fire Hole River), the Yellowstone Lake, 
 cafion and cataracts, and the hot-springs that dot the 
 region between these rivers, one may either ascend 
 the Yellowstone, cross the mountains to the Madison, 
 and descend the Madison, or vice versa. The first is 
 what the parties of Washburne and Hay den did. 
 The second is what our party did only we left the 
 Yellowstone after following it down to the great 
 canon, and returned by a different trail across the 
 mountains to the Madison Valley, by which we re 
 turned to the settlements. Here endeth the first 
 lesson in geography. 
 
 Sawtelle and his dog did not share in the trium 
 phal departure from Virginia City, but awaited us 
 at the camp on the Madison, nine miles from town. 
 Next morning, being the 10th of August, we began 
 our journey in earnest, and traveled eighteen miles 
 up the valley, a fair day s work for the pack-ani 
 mals, though on our way home we "pushed things" 
 over the same ground at the rate of thirty miles 
 daily. The valley of the Madison at this point is 
 an inspiring scene. The river is accompanied on 
 the east by the splendid chain of the Madison Moun 
 tains, with their bold outlines, rugged brown-and- 
 red rock-surfaces, snow-touched crests, and occasional 
 tracery of piney canons. Opposite these is a succes 
 sion of inferior but picturesque ridges, and between 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 165 
 
 is the broad, fair, grassy valley, a very paradise for 
 stock-raisers. To the north, it draws together into 
 the dark and precipitous lower canon of the Madison. 
 Southward (i.e., up the valley), the benched or ter 
 raced structure of the terrain becomes more and more 
 distinct, until at last three or four gigantic terraces, 
 rising one above another from the stream to the 
 mountains, stretch away for many miles on cither 
 side along the valley. What a natural preparation 
 for a railroad ! The engineer need only choose his 
 level, and then "go it" on a gravel foundation hun 
 dreds of feet deep. There is more or less volcanic 
 rock all along the ranges; but as we ascend the river 
 it becomes predominant, and forms at length high 
 lava-walls, like the Palisades of the Hudson. Upon 
 these lavas and the gravel terraces, the vegetation is 
 scanty, though the clear mountain-streams which cut 
 their way through deep side-canons at intervals of 
 about ten miles are delightfully shadowed with pines 
 and cottonwoods and fringed with verdure. The 
 general aspect of the scenery, after the meadows are 
 left behind, is desolate and grand. 
 
 Impossible to describe is the quiet beauty of an 
 evening or noon-day camp by a rushing stream in 
 these sublime solitudes, the blazing fire, the lux 
 urious repose of man and beast, the fragrant pipe, 
 well chosen by some early poet of coppery hue as par 
 excellence the emblem of peace ! Grouse strut and 
 flutter in the bushes ; eagles scream and wheel in 
 
166 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 the sky ; processions of ducks make straight, swift 
 course down the river ; the service-berry thickets and 
 the freshly-turned stones and stumps betray the re 
 cent presence of the fruit and insect loving bear (no 
 bug-bear to us and our repeating breech-loaders) ; 
 there are upon the trail delicate footprints of ante 
 lope and deer, and heavy hoof-marks of the elk. 
 From our green, cool covert we look lazily out upon 
 the valley, hot with the meridian glow, or vast and 
 hazy in the twilight, or mystical and solemn beneath 
 the moon. 
 
 On the fourth day we reached the middle canon of 
 the Madison, where the river breaks through the* 
 main chain of the Rocky Mountains ; and, to avoid 
 the difficulty of the passage, we turned out of the 
 valley, crossed the low divide known as the Reynolds 
 Pass, and saw before us the gleaming waters of 
 Henry s Lake. Here we found hospitable shelter in 
 Sawtelle s ranch, and excellent amusement for a day 
 in hunting and fishing upon his preserves. What 
 with innumerable grouse on the hillsides, ducks and 
 geese in the sedgy sloughs, snowy swans and pelicans 
 upon the lake, and four-footed game of every variety 
 in forest and field, the sportsman s taste can not fail 
 to be gratified. If he is an adventurous Englishman, 
 and must have danger, let him hunt skunks : there 
 are plenty of them, and they strike fear into the 
 stoutest heart. 
 
 Who was Henry? and how came he to have a 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 1C7 
 
 lake? Henry was a prominent fur-trading capitalist 
 of early days, I believe, and had this geographical 
 greatness thrust upon him. Henry s Lake is the 
 source of the Henry, or north fork of the Snake. It 
 is surrounded by lofty mountains, but connected 
 with the outer world by four remarkably low passes, 
 all practicable, and two of them (Snake River and 
 the Reynolds Pass) positively inviting, for a railroad. 
 Southward, the north fork runs with steady grade 
 out to the great plains of Idaho. North-west, a pass 
 over a low divide leads to Red Rock Lake, the head 
 of a branch of the Beaverhead and the Jefferson. 
 Northward, the Reynolds Pass communicates with 
 the terraced valley of the Madison ; and eastward, 
 the Henry Pass gives easy entrance to the great 
 Madison basin, above the middle canon. Here end- 
 eth the second lesson in geography, 
 
 Our route lay through the latter opening; and a 
 charming day s ride it was, from the placid lake, 
 through the glens and glades of the pass, beneath 
 the shining summits, along the willowy banks of 
 the streams, by the great beaver-dams, and finally 
 across the wide basin, densely covered with slender 
 pines, until we camped again on the banks of the 
 river we had left two or three days before. 
 
 At this camp we got a taste of the mosquitoes and 
 black flies, which taught us that the country did not 
 swarm with game exclusively for us. After a fellow 
 has been slaughtering the inhabitants of the wilder- 
 
168 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 ness for a week, it is, perhaps, a wholesome lesson 
 for him to be slaughtered in turn. The helplessness 
 of man against insects is one of Nature s sarcastic 
 
 o 
 
 comments upon intellect. Camels we can manage, 
 swallow even, if necessary ; but gnats are too many 
 for us. Our unfortunate animals couldn t eat, but 
 wound themselves up in their lariats, in frantic at 
 tempts to get away from the multitudinous foe. Old 
 Whitey showed his sagacity by quietly usurping the 
 smoky side of the camp-fire, whence he was not to 
 be enticed away. An hour after sunset, however, the 
 cold stiffened all winged nuisances, an August night 
 in these latitudes means frost, and, before they 
 thawed out in the morning, we had sounded our 
 " packs, saddles, and away!" 
 
 III. 
 
 MARCH AND CAMP. 
 
 THE great Madison basin is perhaps thirty miles 
 wide by fifty long. The river enters it on the south 
 by a narrow canon, which now lay before us, and 
 leaves it on the north by the canon we had avoided 
 in our detour by Henry s Lake. The southern canon, 
 upon which we entered after crossing the basin, is 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 169 
 
 nine or ten miles long, and extremely picturesque. 
 Basaltic cliffs a thousand feet in height overhang the 
 passage, at the bottom of which there is room for 
 the rushing river, with grassy openings and groves of 
 pine on either side. The forest and the wave alike 
 teem with legged and winged game. Fish there are 
 none to speak of, probably on account of the hot and 
 mineral springs above, the effect of which is percep 
 tible in the moderate (though not tepid) temperature 
 of the water, the dense mists which arise from it in 
 early morning, and the presence of certain aquatic 
 plants along the bottom, which we (perhaps mis 
 takenly) attributed to the warm springs above. The 
 Lower Madison abounds in fish, and there is nothing 
 to prevent them from ascending to this point, except 
 the possible effect of the thermal waters. 
 
 We named no end of grand pinnacles and preci 
 pices in this beautiful canon ; but I fear oar names 
 will not stick. Doubtless Hayden or somebody came 
 along afterward, with a dictionary and a reporter, 
 and dubbed them all over again; and ere long the 
 Plantation Bitters man, with his pot and brush, will 
 have obliterated distinctions utterly, and labeled all 
 the prominent points alike. It is with a sad presen 
 timent, therefore, that I recall the glories of Cathe 
 dral Rock, where high in the air the basaltic columns 
 strangely curve and meet to form in the face of the 
 cliff the outline of a stately Gothic arch ; or Pul 
 pit Rock, a bold elevated rostrum aftar the fashion 
 
170 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 which Mr Beecher detests ; or Thrasher s Hole, a gap 
 in the western wall, through which was seen a fasci 
 nating amphitheater of wooded hills, arid which got 
 its name from the difficulty with which Thrasher, 
 his mule, and his camera, were restrained from "go 
 ing for it," to the infinite delay of the expedition ; or 
 Family Buttes, a magnificent series of jutting peaks 
 and buttresses, terminating the canon, beneath the 
 shadow of which we made camp after the passage. 
 
 Our journey had not been altogether without stir 
 ring adventures, such as the christening of Duck 
 Creek and the interview of Hardpan with a bear. 
 
 The way to christen a creek is to immerse some 
 thing in it; and the article immersed, in this case, 
 was a member of the party, who desires me to sup 
 press his name. We were trotting along the river- 
 bottom, when an inquisitive coyote, or prairie-wolf, 
 poked his head over the terrace above us. A rifle 
 shot checked his curiosity without really frightening 
 him much, and he kept pace with us upon his upper 
 level in that graceful and leisurely way which char 
 acterizes his tribe, the loafers of the wilderness. 
 Sawtelle was suitably indifferent, as an old hunter 
 should be, knowing well the small pecuniary value 
 of a coyote-skin. But Sawtelle s dog raced after the 
 trivial prey like mad; aud two or three of us, realiz 
 ing that any thing is game which gives you a good 
 chase, sprang up the terrace in eager pursuit, lie- 
 suit: Mr. Coyote surveying us with calm wonder, out 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 171 
 
 of rifle-range, and with the whole continent for his 
 line of retreat; a brace of panting sportsmen, look 
 ing and feeling ridiculous ; and, worst of all, Saw- 
 telle s dog yelping away, with all the breath left in 
 his body, after a dozen antelope that sailed away up 
 the highland, alarmed by our too sudden emergence 
 from below. There was nothing for it but an 
 antelope-hunt by another relay of the party, and an 
 ignominious return of the defeated ones to lead and 
 drive the pack animals. 
 
 The gentleman to whom I have dimly alluded 
 happened to have the task of leading an ambitious 
 bay horse, to whose noble but somewhat broken- 
 winded spirit the pack was an unaccustomed insult. 
 As we pushed along the valley we came to a narrow, 
 lively stream, across which most of us passed with 
 out difficulty. The docile steed which this gentle 
 man rode waded peacefully through the flood, and 
 the vicious beast he was leading bucked " suddenly 
 on the hither shore. He would not let go the lead 
 ing rope, since that involved a long gallop after a 
 runaway ; and, firmly holding on, he exhorted the 
 recusant in an inspiring tone to " git up and git ! " 
 Unfortunately exhortations are most heeded where 
 not needed ; the good horse got up and got, and the 
 naughty horse sat down. Between the two, I found 
 myself I mean the anonymous gentleman found 
 himself suddenly disporting in the cool, cool wave. 
 Blessings on those big Spanish stirrups out of which 
 
172 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 one slips so easily ! So we christened it Duck Creek, 
 and went our dripping- way. Thank fortune, those 
 fellows who went after antelope didn t get any that 
 time ! There is a damp kind of misery which can 
 not bear to look upon success; and drying one s self 
 at a gallop in a biting wind makes the temper as 
 creaky as the joints. 
 
 The hero of Duck Creek was likewise he who 
 climbed the dead cottonwood after a wounded eagle 
 in its nest. Those who remained to scoff, under the 
 tree, say it was beautiful to see him, embracing with 
 legs and arms the wind-swayed trunk, proceed, after 
 the fashion of a measuring-worm, while the bottoms 
 of his pantaloons, catching the contagious upward 
 tendenc}^ traveled kneeward along his noble limbs 
 faster than he skyward on the cottonwood. Four 
 times that heroic being ascended in vain ; four times 
 he descended, with rapid friction, bringing much 
 rotten and cotton wood : but the fifth time he car 
 ried up in his indomitable clinched teeth the end of 
 a lariat, which he fastened around the tree, and 
 then, descending in triumph, planted himself on a 
 neighboring knoll, victoriously tetered out, and cap 
 tured the shot eagle and two eaglets. 
 
 It was down at the camp on Bear Creek that 
 Hardpan interviewed the bear. lie was not hunting 
 bear just at that time, but eating berries with both 
 hands and all his might and mouth. A rustling in 
 the bushes indicated the approach of a bear. lie 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 173 
 
 awaited the encounter -with stern courage, resolved 
 to stab the bear with his jack-knife at the moment 
 of the fatal hug; for, in changing his position to 
 get a better view of the foe, he had accidentally left 
 behind his hat and his gun. It was a very large 
 bear, to judge by the rustling in the bushes. In 
 fact, continuing to judge, with that rapidity which 
 brave men show in the face of danger, he judged 
 that there were several of them, all large. Unfor 
 tunately, stepping across to a point about half a 
 mile farther down the creek, to get a still better 
 view, he lost so much time (a full minute and a 
 half), -that the bears escaped. In a solemn proces 
 sion to the berry ing-ground, we saw the very bushes 
 that had rustled, and recovered the hat and rifle. 
 
 Our practice at night w r as to pour water on the 
 fire after supper, and picket the animals close around 
 us where we lay on the ground. After reaching the 
 Upper Madison, we took turns in standing guard, to 
 watch against possible stealing or stampeding of the 
 stock, and also, from time to time, to see to it that 
 the picket-ropes were clear. When you want to 
 pasture one hors3 for one night on an ample lawn, 
 the business is easy enough. You drive your picket- 
 pin deep enough to hold, and leave enough of it 
 above ground to permit the firm fastening of the 
 rope, but not to permit the winding up of the rope 
 on the pin by possible circular promenades on the 
 horse s part ; after which, you bid the horse, and all 
 
174 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 care on his behalf, good-night. Unless he is a very 
 raw recruit at picket-duty, he will move about with 
 perfect freedom over the whole circle of which the 
 rope is the radius ; and you will hear him nibble and 
 crunch the squeaking grass at all hours of the night. 
 But, when you apprehend Indians, you can t afford to 
 hunt up a smooth lawn for each horse. As the higher 
 mountains are entered, the grass grows scanty, and 
 it is necessary to make the best of such patches as 
 occur. So the animals get picketed where bushes 
 interfere with tho free circulation of the ropes, or so 
 near together that they can (and accordingly do) get 
 up mutual entanglements. Every such performance 
 shortens the radius, and the realm of food. An ex 
 perienced picketer generally makes one or two at 
 tempts to disentangle himself, by traveling around 
 in the direction that first occurs to him. If this hap 
 pens to bo the right one, he may work out again to 
 the full area of his destined supper : otherwise he 
 winds himself up, and then (unlike a clock) stops 
 going. It ir, the duty of the guard to go out, unwind 
 him, and start him again, lest, standing in patient dis 
 gust all night, he be found in the morning empty of 
 grass and of spirit for the day s work. It is solemnly 
 amusing to march in a moony midnight hither and 
 thither, followed by a silent steed, through all the 
 intricacies of the knot he has tied, with the aid of 
 stumps, bushes, his own legs, and his neighbor s rope. 
 Fancy yourself unraveling a bad case of shoestring, 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 175 
 
 and obliged to pull a horse through every loop at the 
 end of the string. The "Lancers" is nothing to it. 
 For a real mazy dance, to puzzle the floor-committee, 
 give me the nine-horse picket-cotillion. % 
 
 At daylight the animals are let loose, and stray 
 about, trailing their long ropes, in search of un tram 
 pled grass for breakfast. It is easy to catch them by 
 means of the ropes, though now and then an experi 
 enced old fellow has learned the exact length of his 
 lariat, and will not let you get near enough to clutch 
 the end of it. 
 
 This keeping guard at night without the compan 
 ionship of the camp-fire is a chilly and dispiriting 
 affair. The first watch is not very lonely. There is 
 generally some wakeful comrade who sits up in his 
 bed to talk ; or perhaps the whole party linger around 
 the flameless embers, exchanging stories of adventure. 
 But he who "goes on " from midnight till dawn, sur 
 rounded only by mummies rolled in blankets on the 
 ground, is thrown upon his thoughts for company. 
 The night-noises are mysterious and amazingly vari 
 ous, particularly if the camp is surrounded by woods. 
 There are deer and elk going down to the water to 
 drink ; there are unnatural birds that whistle and 
 answer, for all the world, like ambuscading savages; 
 there are crackling twigs ; the picket-ropes crawl 
 through the grass with a dreadful sound; the grass 
 itself squeaks in an unearthly way when it is pulled 
 by the horses mouths. The steady crunching of their 
 
176 CAMP AND CAHIN. 
 
 grinders is a re-assuring, because familiar sound ; but 
 ever and anon it stops suddenly, all the horses seem 
 ing to stand motionless, .and to listen. Their ears are. 
 .quicker than yours: they hear something moving in 
 the forest, doubtless the wily Sioux. You glide 
 from tree to tree, revolver in hand, until you get near 
 enough to see that they are all asleep. Old Bony is 
 dreaming unpleasantly besides : it is an uncanny 
 thing, a horse with the nightmare. You make the 
 rounds. They all wake and go to eating again : so 
 you know they were not scared except the blooded 
 bay, who mistakes you for an Indian, and snorts and 
 cavorts furiously. 
 
 I remember well such a night, near the banks of 
 the Yellowstone Lake, when we were doubly suspi 
 cious, because we had heard a rifle-shot close by our 
 camp, not fired by any member of our party. I was 
 on guard at about one A.M., and keenly alive to all 
 the blood-curdling sensations I have mentioned, when 
 suddenly the trees above and the ground beneath 
 were shaken by a brief but unmistakable earthquake. 
 The shock was in the nature of a horizontal vibra 
 tion ; and the emotion produced by the experience at 
 such an hour, in the solemn woods, w r as a unique com 
 bination of awe and nausea. I was not sorry that 
 one or two of the party were waked by it : under the 
 circumstances, I w r as grateful for a little conversa 
 tion. 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 177 
 
 IV. 
 HOT- SPRINGS AND GEYSERS. 
 
 BY our camp under Family Buttes, at the upper 
 end of the third great Madison canon, the river 
 " forks; " a considerable stream, called the East Fork 
 of the Madison, coming in at this point. We as 
 cended this stream two or three miles, attracted by 
 the appearance of a stream in the distance, which we 
 found to proceed from a group of large hot-springs. 
 These we studied with great zeal, and named with 
 much ingenuity. Unfortunately, the greater wonders 
 subsequently observed have driven these out of my 
 memory; and one of my note-books, in which the 
 whole thing is carefully recorded, with a view to im 
 mortality, is, at the moment of the present writing, in 
 the pocket of my other coat ; and I fear that coat has 
 been surreptitiously sold by my wife, for pin-money, 
 to a gentleman from Jerusalem who does business in 
 our street ; and at any rate I don t want the thing, 
 and wouldn t use it if I had it. It is my impression 
 that we called one spring the Caldron, another the 
 Kettle, a third the Safety- Valve, a fourth the Reser 
 voir, and a fifth the Devil s something or other. Ne 
 cessity is generally the mother of profanity in the 
 nomenclature of hot-springs. But I remember the 
 
178 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 Bath-Tub, a deep crystal Lauy, on the brim of which 
 we sat, and parboiled our feet in the steaming tide, 
 until, the action of the water having in some strange 
 way thinned the aggregate cuticle, and increased the 
 sensitiveness of the membrane left, the fear of blis 
 ters overcame the love of romance. 
 
 Probably none of these springs are active geysers, 
 though one or two of the group may be so, and some 
 of them boil with great vehemence. The Caldron, in 
 particular, lifts a pyramid of ebullition, several feet 
 in diameter, to the height, occasionally, of two feet. 
 The most interesting feature of the group is the prc;- 
 cipitation of iron in the quieter parts of their reser 
 voirs. We could see, for instance, in the Bath-Tub, 
 bubbles of steam ascending from many small vents 
 at the bottom, indicating the points where the heated 
 water from beneath came up. As the hot stream 
 escaped from subterraneous pressure, and came in 
 contact with the cooler water above, it apparently 
 precipitated a portion of its iron (doubtless held in 
 solution under pressure as bicarbonate); and this pre 
 cipitation took place around the jet of hot water, so as 
 to form a tube, from the upper end of which the hot 
 ter current continued to escape. The process goes on, 
 of course, very slowly; and the tubes do not harden, 
 but are flexible and slimy. In the largest reservoir 
 they have accumulated great size, and lie along the 
 bottom wherever the hottest currents have flowed. 
 They look like reddish-brown slime-covered logs; but 
 
WONDEES OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 179 
 
 a little scientific investigation with a long pole dissi 
 pates at once the log and the illusion. 
 
 Returning to the main stream, or rather the Fire- 
 Ilole River, since this is the name given to the west 
 ern branch, from this point up, we ascended its 
 course southward. For a dozen miles it traverses a 
 wild and narrow canon, breaking through the moun 
 tain-range which forms one wall of the Madison canon 
 described in the last chapter. Our course lay up and 
 down, and every whither ; sometimes in the stream 
 itself, when the steep precipices gave no footing ; 
 sometimes along a narrow grassy margin beneath 
 the cliffs ; sometimes straight up a fearful " climb ; " 
 sometimes straight down an awful slide ; through 
 the thick forests, over or around the fallen timber; 
 Thrasher s mule playing fantastic tricks, with only a 
 hand s-breadth between her and everlasting smash, 
 with the ruin of American art as a consequence ; the 
 other animals occasionally infected with the desire of 
 trying impossible passages, or of unloading them 
 selves at any expense : but cool heads, and good tem 
 per, and the diamond hitch, were finally triumphant 
 over all. It was a glorious, though a fatiguing, dozen 
 miles. Several fine falls and rapids were passed ; and 
 frequently we left the trail, to steal out upon some 
 projecting point, and gaze into the deep gorge, and 
 the whirling, roaring, iridescent flood. The scenery 
 of this region is never going to get justice from the 
 critics. Everybody will rave about the geysers and 
 
180 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 the Yellowstone, and these lovely glades and wild 
 ravines will be set down as ordinary in comparison. 
 Nor can I afford to dally any longer by the way in 
 this sentimental fashion, I must give up the itine 
 rary style, and plunge at once, so to speak, into the 
 hot-springs and geysers. And, before we go a step 
 farther, I mean to get rid of a heavy weight of sci 
 ence which has burdened my soul long enough. You 
 shall not see a single geyser till you have heard the 
 geyser theory. 
 
 The word "geyser" is an Icelandic term, meaning 
 to break forth : consequently, nothing is truly a gey 
 ser which is not truly a "buster." As Hardpan says, 
 after seeing the genuine article in the Fire-Hole 
 basin, " Those small sizzlers they call geysers in 
 California might just as well dry up or simmer 
 down: they can t run a two-for-a-bit side-show along 
 of this ! " 
 
 The true geyser, then, is characterized by a pecul 
 iar intermittent activity. It discharges periodically, 
 with almost explosive force, a column of hot water 
 and steam into the air; and, after the eruption is 
 over, it remains quiet for a considerable time. Now, 
 ask me four questions; to wit: Where does the water 
 come from? What makes it hot? Why does it 
 shoot into the air ? Why does it stop shooting ? 
 and don t bother me with cross-questionings; for this 
 is a subject that will bear more explanation than dis 
 cussion. 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 181 
 
 The water comes, no doubt, from the same source 
 that supplies all ordinary springs ; namely, the clouds. 
 This is proved by the location of the geysers and hot- 
 springs at the foot of mountains, &c., where the per 
 colating waters would naturally find an outlet. How 
 deeply they have penetrated, however, before they ap 
 pear in their heated condition, it is impossible to say. 
 The fact that the surface all around is cold, except 
 when actually wet with the hot water, or permeated 
 with hot gases, seems to indicate a deep origin of the 
 heat. It is probable, however, that only a part, if 
 any, of the percolating springs actually penetrate so 
 far. At comparatively shallow depths they are prob 
 ably met by ascending vapors from below, at intense 
 temperatures, and thus heated to a mean degree. 
 
 According to some authors, the source of all this 
 heat, like that of volcanoes and earthquakes, is cos- 
 mical; that is to say, the store of heat still remain 
 ing from the early incandescence of the earth, or, in 
 other words, the fiery fluid interior of the globe. Ac 
 cording to others, it is chemical, or the result of solu 
 tions and decompositions in underground deposits. 
 That the latter cause is sufficient to account for vast 
 degrees of heat, there is no doubt; though there is 
 reason to believe that volcanic phenomena are due, in 
 part at least, to wider causes, and that the solf ataras, 
 hot-springs, and geysers belong in the same class. 
 My own observations incline me to believe that both 
 the heat and the decomposition of subterranean rocks 
 
182 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 contribute to the temperature of thermal springs. 
 In cases where waters contain much iron, sulphuric 
 acid, sulphurated hydrogen, or alkalies, a considera 
 ble decomposition of the rocks may be plausibly in 
 ferred. When, however, as in most of the geysers 
 of the Madison, the water contains little mineral mat 
 ter, and that mostly silica, it is difficult to give an 
 adequate chemical cause of the heat, without assum 
 ing boldly that the results of decomposition have 
 been precipitated on their way up to the surface. 
 
 The peculiar discharge of the geysers, and their 
 still more remarkable intermittency, is the result of 
 the geyser tube and its connection. A thermal spring, 
 particularly a silicious one, tends to form for itself a 
 mound by the evaporation of its continual overflow; 
 and through the center of this mound runs, more or 
 less vertical and regular, the channel or tube of the 
 spring, branching oft at the bottom into the duct or 
 ducts through which the water is supplied. It has 
 been supposed that the intermittent action of the 
 geysers was due to subterranean reservoirs in which 
 steam accumulated until its force was sufficient to 
 cause an explosion ; but Bunsen showed, nearly twen 
 ty-five years ago, that the tube itself is sufficient to 
 account for all these irregularities. His experiments 
 were made upon the Great Geyser in Iceland, the 
 tube of which is from ten to eighteen feet in diame 
 ter, and has been probed to a depth of seventy or 
 seventy-five feet, lie ascertained the temperature of 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 183 
 
 the water at various parts of the tube just before an 
 explosion, and found that, strange to say, it was no 
 where boiling hot. This expression requires some 
 explanation. Our phrase u boiling hot" does not 
 signify any particular temperature. In the first place 
 different liquids boil at very different heats. Ether 
 and alcohol boil long before water : mercury, and 
 most other fluids familiar to us in daily life, require 
 a much higher temperature. If we were to try to 
 boil mercury in a lead or tin spoon, the spoon would 
 melt before the mercury would boil. But, even with 
 one and the same liquid, the boiling-point depends 
 on the pressure. Water may be heated in a closed 
 vessel to 400 without boiling. Our boiling point of 
 212 Farenheit is the temperature at which water 
 boils at the level of the sea at a barometric pressure 
 of thirty inches of mercury. As we ascend in alti 
 tude, the temperature of boiling water decreases. 
 
 The boiling-point for any pressure is the tempera 
 ture of saturated steam at that pressure. Assuming 
 the altitude of the geyser basin at about sixty-five 
 hundred feet, we have (2-3.64 inches barometer) 200 
 for the temperature of the water at boiling-point. 
 At different depths in the geyser tube, when it is 
 full of water, we have (by rough calculation) the fol 
 lowing boiling-points : 
 
 Ten feet, 210 ; twenty feet, 229 ; thirty feet, 240; 
 forty feet, 250 ; fifty feet, 258 ; sixty feet, 266 ; 
 seventy feet, 273 ; one hundred feet (if the tube is 
 
184 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 so deep) 290 ; four hundred feet, 380 (about a hun 
 dred and eighty-five pounds pressure) ; one thousand 
 feet, 452, or about 453 pounds per square inch. 
 
 Now, if the water at forty feet from the surface is, 
 say, 245 hot, it can not boil ; but, if any thing could 
 move it up to thirty feet, it would there begin to boil, 
 and give off steam vigorously, because it would be 
 several degrees above the boiling temperature for 
 that depth. The pressure at forty feet from the 
 water in the tube is thirty pounds per inch ; and 
 that of the steam (at 245), only about twenty-seven 
 pounds. But at thirty feet the hydrostatic pressure 
 is only twenty-five pounds; and hence, if the water at 
 forty feet were pushed up to this point, it would be 
 hot enough to fly into steam, and the steam would 
 have two pounds surplus pressure. The column of 
 water above would, therefore, be lifted. If it were 
 entirely lifted, so that the whole tube above thirty 
 feet were full of steam, moving upward, the pressure 
 upon the water below would be greatly reduced, and 
 this would fly into steam with still greater excess of 
 power. Practically, the two operations take place 
 simultaneously; and from the middle, upward and 
 downward, the whole geyser tube bursts into steam, 
 and blows its contents out with great force. 
 
 The necessary preliminary lifting of the geyser 
 column is effected by portions of steam, generated at 
 the hottest points in the side-ducts, and forcing their 
 way into the main tube. Here they meet with cooler 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 185 
 
 water, by which they are condensed, unless, before 
 that takes place, they lift the whole column enough to 
 cause an eruption. The entrance, condensation, and 
 collapse of these bodies of steam, may be distin 
 guished at the surface by a sudden "jump," and 
 subsidence again of the water in the geyser-pool over 
 the tube, accompanied by explosive reports from be 
 low. Tyndall aptly calls these movements abortive 
 eruptions. After numerous repetitions of them, dur 
 ing which the water in the tube reaches its maximum 
 heat throughout, some larger lift than usual hoists 
 the whole affair with its own petard, and it becomes 
 the inquisitive observer to stand clear. 
 
 The duration of an eruption depends upon the 
 amount of sufficiently hot water " banked up " in the 
 subterranean channels which supply it. Its conclu 
 sion is marked by a diminution of steam pressure in 
 the tube and a condensation of the remaining steam, 
 causing a suction downward, which draws back the 
 water from the surface-pool. 
 
186 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 V. 
 
 THE LOWER GEYSER-BASIN OF THE FIRE-HOLE. 
 
 WE approached the geyser-basin with our expec 
 tation at the boiling-point, and ready to discharge; 
 for we had among the baggage two copies of " Scrib- 
 ner s," containing Mr. Lang-ford s account of the 
 wonders of the region, as seen by the Washburne ex 
 ploring party. His article occupied two numbers, and 
 we had t\vo copies of each : so four persons could be 
 accommodated with intellectual sustenance at one 
 time. For the other two, it was, as one of them 
 mournfully observed, "Testaments, or nothinV 
 
 Mr. Langford s articles (see " Scribner s " for May 
 and June, 1871) were vivid and tascinating; and we 
 found them, in the end, highly accurate. At the out 
 set, however, we were inclined to believe them some 
 what exaggerated; and Thrasher w r as divided between 
 his desire to catch an instantaneous view of a spout 
 ing column two hundred and fifty-six feet high, and 
 his ambition to prove, by the relentless demonstration 
 of photography, that these vents of steam and hot 
 water were u not half as big as they had been cracked 
 up to be." 
 
 We were not at first aware that there are two gey 
 ser-basins on the Fire-Hole River; the upper one, 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 187 
 
 ten miles above the other, being the smaller, but con 
 taining the largest geysers. It was this one which 
 Washbu rue s party, coming from Yellowstone Lake, 
 first stumbled upon, and, after viewing its splendid 
 display, naturally passed by the inferior basin with 
 little notice. But we, emerging from the forest, and 
 finding ourselves on the border of a great gray plain, 
 with huge mounds in the distance, from which arose 
 perpetually clouds of steam, supposed we had reached 
 the great sensation, and prepared to be enthusiastic 
 or cynical as circumstances might dictate. 
 
 We rode for a mile across the barren plain, picking 
 our way to avoid the soft places. This is quite neces 
 sary in the neighborhood of the hot-springs. Where 
 they have deposited a white, hard crust, it is gener 
 ally strong enough to bear horse and man ; but, over 
 large areas, the ground is like what we call, in the 
 East, "spring-holes; " and the treacherous surface 
 permits uncomfortable slumping through, haply into 
 scalding water. It is not very deep; but a small 
 depth under such circumstances is enough to make a 
 fellow " suffer some," like the "lobster in the lobster- 
 pot." 
 
 The plain contains a few scattered springs; and 
 along the river, its western border, there are many in 
 active ebullition. The. principal group of geysers is 
 at the upper or southern end, extending for some dis 
 tance up the valley of a small tributary from the east. 
 With cautious daring, we rode up the side of the 
 
188 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 great white mound, winding among the numerous fis 
 sures, craters, and reservoirs that on every side of us 
 hissed, gurgled, or quietly vapored, with now and 
 then a slight explosion, and a spurt to the height of 
 a dozen feet or more. Sawtelle s dog nosed suspi 
 ciously around several of the basins, until, finding 
 one that seemed not too hot for a bath, he plunged 
 in, and emerged in a great hurry, with a yelp of dis 
 approbation. 
 
 A couple of dead pines stood, lonesome enough, in 
 the side of the hill, " whence all the rest had fled." 
 They had died at their posts, and to the said* posts we 
 made fast our horses, and ascended a few rods far 
 ther, until we stood by the borders of the summit 
 springs. There were two or three large vents at the 
 bottom of deep reservoirs or intricate caverns. It 
 gives one an unpleasant thrill, at first, to hear the 
 tumult of the imprisoned forces, and to feel their 
 throes and struggles shaking the ground beneath 
 one s feet; but this soon passes away, and the phi 
 losopher is enabled to stand with equanimity on the 
 rim of the boiling flood, or even to poke his inquisi 
 tive nose into some dark fissure, out of which, per 
 haps, in a few moments more a mass of uproarious 
 liquid and vapor will burst forth. 
 
 We lingered much longer in this basin than my 
 brief notice of it indicates ; for, you see, we thought 
 we had found the geysers ; and oh the hours that 
 we spent " identifying " the individual springs that 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 189 
 
 Langford had described 1 Since the largest eruptions 
 we observed did not exceed forty-five feet in height, 
 we set down his account as hugely overdrawn, and 
 were deeply disgusted at the depravity of travelers. 
 But Sawtelle remarked, in his quiet way, that, "if it 
 w r ere not for that there article in that there magazine, 
 these yer springs would be considered a big thing, 
 after all ; and perhaps it was just as well to let the 
 magazine go to thunder, and enjoy the scenery." 
 This sensible advice we followed with much profit 
 and pleasure ; and we are all now ready to admit that 
 our happening upon the wrong lot of geysers first was 
 a most fortunate occurrence, since we should other 
 wise have been tempted to pass them by as insignifi 
 cant. The truth is, that, in some of the elements of 
 beauty and interest, the lower basin is superior to its 
 more startling rival. It is broader, and more easily 
 surveyed as a whole ; and its springs are more numer 
 ous, though not so powerful. Nothing can be lovelier 
 than the sight, at sunrise, of the white steam- columns, 
 tinged with rosy morning, ascending against the back 
 ground of the dark-pine woods and the clear sky above. 
 The variety in form and character of these springs is 
 quite remarkable. A few of them make faint de 
 posits of sulphur, though the greater number appear 
 to be purely silicious. One very large basin (forty 
 by sixty feet) is filled with the most beautiful slime, 
 varying in tint from white to pink, which blobs and 
 spits away, trying to boil, like a heavy theologian 
 
190 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 forcing a laugh to please a friend, in spite of his 
 natural specific gravity. We called it the Paint-Vat; 
 and Hayden s people, I see, have called it the Mud- 
 Puff. Paint-Mud, or Puff- Vat, or any other permuta 
 tion or combination, will do. 
 
 A geyser in its old age becomes a quiet, deep pool, 
 or laiKj. This may occur by reason of the choking of 
 the vent, or the gradual growth in altitude of the 
 mound or tube, so that the hydrostatic pressure per 
 petually prevents explosive discharges ; or any other 
 causs leading to the opening of some new vent in its 
 neighborhood ; or, finally, a local diminution of the 
 heat, a change in the subterranean channels by \vhich 
 the heated vapors reach the spring-water, or such an 
 excess of the water-supply as prevents any part of it 
 from being converted into steam. In Hayden s report 
 it is suggested that the geyser eruptions must be most 
 frequent and grand in the spring and autumn, when 
 the supply of water is most abundant. It is possible, 
 ho\vever, that a large and sudden supply of water 
 may render them less frequent, or less grand, or both. 
 
 The lauys, or extinct geysers, are the most beautiful 
 objects of all. Around their borders the white in 
 crustations form quaint arabesques and ornamental 
 bosses, resembling petrified vegetable growths. (At 
 the risk of spoiling the rhetorical effort of this pas 
 sage, I will boldly say that they most frequently look 
 like sponges and cauliflowers.) The sides of the res 
 ervoir are corrugated and indented fancifully, like the 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 191 
 
 recesses and branching passages of a fairy cavern. 
 The water is brightly but not deeply blue. Over its 
 surface curls a light vapor; through its crystal clear 
 ness one may gaze, apparently, to unfathomable 
 depths; and, seen through this wondrous medium, 
 the white walls seem like silver, ribbed and crusted 
 with pearl. When the sun strikes across the SCPHO, 
 the last touch of unexpected beauty is added. The 
 projected shadow of the decorated edge reveals by 
 contrast new glories in the depths : every ripple on 
 the surface makes marvelous play of tint and shade 
 on the pearly bottom. One half expects to see a 
 lovely naiad emerge with floating grace from her fan- 
 tastically-carven covert, and gayly kiss her snowy 
 hand through the blue wave. AVhat we did see, in 
 one such romantic instance, was the whitened skele 
 ton of a mountain buffalo. Was it a case of disap 
 pointed love, and suicide? We voted otherwise, in 
 our degraded cynicism, and decided that the old fool 
 had come down from the hills to "take a little some 
 thing hot," lost his footing (as folks will, who do 
 that sort of thing), and got drowned, like Duke Clar 
 ence, in his own toddy. " Served him right," says 
 Hard pan: "there w 7 as too much water in his drink." 
 Whatever may be the moral of it, no king or saint 
 was ever more magnificently entombed. Not the 
 shrine of St. Antony of Padua, with its white mar 
 bles and its silver lamps, is so resplendent as this 
 sepulcher in the wilderness. Thrasher thought it 
 
192 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 would make an elegant view, and would "take" 
 amazingly as part of a stereopticonical exhibition, 
 being a great natural curiosity. Everybody knows 
 flies in amber ; but who ever heard of a buifalo in 
 sapphire? Still, there are some things which Thrasher 
 can not do; and of these there are a very few which 
 he will not even attempt. One of them is to stand 
 astride of a deep pool of hot water, greater in diam 
 eter than the length of his legs, hold up a camera, 
 and take a flying shot at a sub-aqueous buffalo. 
 With unutterable woe in his countenance, he pro 
 nounced the unaccustomed words, " It can t be done," 
 and was with difficulty prevented from taking a drink 
 of collodion (by mistake) in his despair. 
 
 It was not until we had crossed the mountains to 
 the Yellowstone that we discovered, through the 
 courtesy of Lieut. Doane, whom we met upon that 
 river, that we had not seen the grandest of the gey 
 sers. So, from the Great Canon we struck straight 
 across the ranges by a new route, and, emerging upon 
 the Fire-Hole, followed it to the upper basin. 
 
WONDEES OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 
 
 VI. 
 THE UPPER GEYSER-BASIN OF THE FIRE-HOLE. 
 
 THE centers of the two geyser-basins are about ten 
 miles apart; though the distance along the river be 
 tween them, in which no springs are found, does not 
 exceed two or three miles. It is a lovely ride, fringed 
 with groves made musical by the rippling stream, and 
 watched over by the grandeur of the far hills. For a 
 part of the way, the traveler winds along the slopes of 
 vast accumulations of disintegrated geyser-sinter, like 
 ashes, only stained in various colors with sulphur and 
 iron, and mineral salts. At one place, several enor 
 mous hot-springs, which have built themselves up on 
 the river-bank, unite to pour over their incrusted rirn 
 a steaming cascade into the main current. But such 
 sights are grown familiar to us by this time, and we 
 do not even ford the stream to take a closer look at 
 them. 
 
 Just as we were about entering the upper basin, 
 some quick eye caught sight of four strange spots on 
 the side of a snowy geyser-mound in the distance 
 ahead. They looked like so many dark paddles laid 
 in a row; but we recognized them, with a thrill of 
 anticipated feasting, as wild geese, lying, with their 
 necks extended, to comfortably snooze and simmer in 
 
194 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 the sun. It is not a common thing to catch wild 
 geese asleep : so we made preparations to terminate 
 slumber with slaughter. The bold Hardpan and ihe 
 
 wise , like Diomed and Ulysses in the glorious 
 
 tenth book of the Iliad, "both lay down without the 
 path," and wriggled towards the enemy s camp, 
 while all the rest of us Greeks awaited the result. 
 There was a long interval of silence, broken only by 
 the occasional crackling of a twig. We learned sub 
 sequently that Ulysses insisted on crawling half a 
 mile or so upon his stomach, and made the impetuous 
 TyJides Hardpan do the same. At length the two 
 belligerents emerged from the forest, in serpentine 
 stillness, 011 the river-bank, just opposite the Trojans, 
 who slept serenely, but at long range. Our warriors, 
 sprawled at full-length, and stretching out their 
 heads as far as their limited necks would allow, to 
 reconnoiter the position, resembled ludicrously their 
 sleeping victims. The gleam of two rifle-barrels was 
 seen; a sharp double report broke the stillness; some 
 white dust flew from the distant mound and eighty 
 pounds Troy weight of uninjured goose-flesh got up 
 hastily, and went squawking down stream. As the 
 discomfited sportsmen returned, Hardpan remarked, 
 with assumed cheerfulness, that, by Jove, he had 
 scared em some! But this paltry consolation availed 
 nothing with the well-grieved Greeks. So, our ex 
 periment in the Homeric line being a failure, we 
 shot a couple of ordinary ducks for dinner, and rode 
 meekly forward. 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 
 
 A short distance farther brought us into the Upper 
 Basin. This is about three miles long by half a mile 
 wide. Entering at the lower end, and passing numer 
 ous quiescent springs, we recognized at once the cone 
 of the Giant Geyser, which rises about ten feet above 
 the surface of a low mound, and looks like the petri 
 fied hollow stump of a big tree. Riding by it a few 
 hundred yards over the white sinter that covered the 
 ground, we camped in the edge of a grove, almost 
 under the shadow of the architectural pile of the 
 Castle Geyser. But, while we were removing packs 
 and saddles, a roar from the north indicated some 
 unusual occurrence; and, looking thither, we saw the 
 Giant in full activity. A few moments brought us to 
 the spot; and approaching the geyser on the wind 
 ward side, to escape the driving spray, we were able 
 to examine it closely. Out of its throat, five feet 
 in diameter, was rushing a full column of mingled 
 steam and water, the latter rising a hundred feet (by 
 measurement taken of a less than maximum height), 
 and the former shooting cloudily much higher, and 
 then drifting a\vay with the wind. This monstrous 
 eruption lasted three hours; and during its continu 
 ance the volume of the river into w r hich the water 
 flowed was nearly doubled. 
 
 A dozen feet from the main cone w r as a small vent, 
 which for a long time only vapored quietly, like a 
 meditative teakettle. Suddenly, however, this small 
 side-vent began to blow off steam with considerable 
 
CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 noise and power, and immediately the force of the 
 Giant Geyser was perceptibly weakened. This was 
 a safety-valve, or rather a low-water detector such as 
 we attach to steam-boilers. When the water sunk to 
 a certain level under ground, the steam escaped 
 through this side-channel, and thus the pressure in 
 the main tube was weakened. We thought the erup 
 tion was about to come to a close ; but new accessions 
 of steam and water below revived its enthusiasm, 
 the safety-valve shut up again, and the column rose 
 to its former height, this process being several times 
 repeated during the long continuance of the spring s 
 activity. 
 
 Near the Giant is the Grotto, a geyser which has 
 covered over its cone, so that the vent is partly hori 
 zontal. Some of us put our heads in, and could see 
 the boiling and muttering w r ater about twenty feet 
 below. One of the party proposed to crawl through 
 the cavern of sinter, with irregular side-openings, 
 which housed this spring; but he was fortunately 
 dissuaded. If he had tried it, he would have been a 
 parboiled man, and of no further use to anybody, 
 except to point a paragraph of soul-harrowing de 
 scription in this article, and to stop that hole against 
 some other fool, until the operation of time and hot 
 water had reduced him to the merely ornamental 
 condition of a skeleton, like that of the. buffalo. 
 lately described, the only insoluble things about 
 him being his bones, and how they got there. For 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 197 
 
 the geyser suddenly began to play, and a scalding 
 stream poured from the openings just now so safe and 
 dry. 
 
 This geyser also had its safety-valve companion, 
 in fact, more than one of them. The one which most 
 attracted us was a deep and beautiful reservoir, into 
 which ran one of the streams from the gushing Grotto. 
 Supposing that the reservoir was thus being filled, 
 we placed a pebble on the margin at the water s edge, 
 that we might measure the rate of its rise ; but re 
 turning in eight minutes, we found, to our surprise, 
 that the water had fallen a foot. The geyser was 
 emptying the reservoir from below, while it returned 
 but a portion of its contents by the surface stream we 
 had noticed. One of the scientific gentlemen said he 
 knew 7 all about it, it was in Greenleaf s Arithmetic : 
 " A cistern has two spouts : one is able to fill it in 
 one hour, and the other will empty it in half an hour. 
 Now, if the diameter of the cistern be 173,258,421 
 feet, and the height 25,479,623 feet, and the weight 
 of the water 62.49 pounds per cubic foot, and the 
 rate of legal interest six per cent, and both spouts be 
 running, how long will it take to fill the cistern?" 
 He said it was only necessary to substitute x and y 
 for some of these quantities, to make the case apply 
 to the Grotto Geyser; and he promised to work the 
 thing out for me when we got home. But now he 
 says that part of his Greenleaf has been torn out ; 
 and, besides, he is sure it is one of those things " that 
 
198 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 no fellow can find out," because it depends on the 
 amount of water, which varies with the reports of the 
 Signal Service Bureau. 
 
 After we returned to camp, Old Faithful, in many 
 respects the most beautiful geyser of all, gave us a 
 brief but very satisfactory exhibition. This geyser 
 is situated near the upper end of the basin, upon the 
 top of a symmetrical mound; and its tube, being 
 smooth and vertical, gives a remarkably straight and 
 perfect jet, rising, sometimes, to the height of two 
 hundred feet. The performance of Old Faithful 
 lasts only about twenty minutes; but it is repeated 
 generally every hour. It was in full sight from camp, 
 and we could admire it at our ease, without leaving 
 our late and welcome dinner. A lively breeze car 
 ried the white steam away to one side, and left a 
 clean, sharp, vertical edge on the other side, marking 
 against the woods and the sky the column of the 
 fountain, and giving to the whole the appearance of 
 a gigantic plume. At intervals during the night we 
 turned our heads, without rising, as we heard Old 
 .Faithful s booming signal, and beheld through the 
 trees the pillar of cloud, snow-white and sparkling in 
 the starry night. 
 
 Probably the geysers are not regular in their times 
 of eruption. The Great Geyser of Iceland is notori 
 ously lazy and whimsical ; and often parties are 
 obliged to leave without having seen it discharge at 
 all, after camping and watching beside it for many 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 199 
 
 days. In our American geyser-basins, the springs 
 are so numerous, that no one fails to see at least a 
 dozen eruptions, though the largest are not the most 
 frequent. Here is a list of some of the principal 
 geysers of the Upper Basin, as seen by Washburne s, 
 Hayden s, or our party. The heights have been de 
 termined by actual though sometimes rude measure 
 ment; but it must be borne in mind that they gener 
 ally represent the maximum observed. Some of the 
 geysers maintain this maximum height with surpris 
 ing steadiness : others rapidly diminish in power. 
 
 Giant. Diameter, 5 feet ; height, 140 feet ; lasts 3 
 hours. 
 
 Giantess. Diameter, 18 feet; height of small jet, 
 250 feet; lasts 20 minutes. 
 
 Beehive. Diameter, 2 feet; height, 219 feet; lasts 
 20 minutes. 
 
 Grand Geyser. Diameter, 6 feet; height, 200 feet; 
 lasts 20 minutes. 
 
 Old Faithful. Diameter, 20 inches; height, 200 
 feet; lasts 20 minutes. 
 
 Grotto. Diameter, 4 feet; height, GO feet; lasts 30 
 minutes. 
 
 Castle. Diameter, 3 feet ; height, 50 feet. 
 
 Fan. Height, 60 feet; lasts 10 to 30 minutes. 
 
 Besides these, there are numerous geysers throwing 
 their jets from ten to forty feet, and many springs 
 which bear every indication of being geysers, though 
 they have not yet been observed in violent action. 
 
200 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 A still larger number have once been geysers, and 
 have now relapsed into the quiet old age of the laug, 
 or have never been geysers, but hope to be some clay, 
 when they have accumulated a tube of sufficient 
 height, just as boys, when I was a boy, looked 
 forward to the achievements of manhood as synony 
 mous with tho possession of high standing-collars. 
 
 It was hard for us to tear ourselves away from this 
 interesting region; but duty called, and lack of pro 
 visions and ammunition induced us to listen. So, 
 from the Upper Basin we went back to Virginia City, 
 by forced marches, in four days, at the rate of over 
 thirty miles a day. Oar homeward journey was en 
 livened by one small " Indian encounter/ which, if I 
 should embellish it after the manner of frontier his 
 torians, would cause the sympathetic scalps of many 
 a Christian household to tingle. But "my con 
 science, hanging about the neck of my heart," bids 
 me confess that there was no fighting done, and that 
 our running was executed with dignified firmness. 
 
 This is not all of my story ; for I shall go back, as 
 the novelists do, and take up the thread of the tale 
 in the middle thereof, narrating in my next chapter 
 our experiences of the great lake, cafion, and cataracts 
 of the Yellowstone. 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 201 
 VII. 
 
 YELLOWSTONE LAKE AND RIVER. 
 
 THE great lake from which the Yellowstone River 
 flows is about twenty-two miles long from north to 
 south, and ten to fifteen miles wide from east to west. 
 Several long peninsulas extend into it from the 
 southern shore; so that the shape of the lake has been 
 compared to a human hand. The imaginative gen 
 tleman who discovered this resemblance must have 
 thought the size and form of fingers to be quite insig 
 nificant, provided the number was complete. The 
 hand in question is afflicted with elephantiasis in the 
 thumb, dropsy in the little finger, hornet-bites on 
 the third finger, and the last stages of starvation in 
 the other two. There are several islands in the lake ; 
 and soundings taken at many points indicate a depth 
 nowhere exceeding fifty fathoms. The altitude above 
 sea-level is 7,427 feet. 
 
 The scene presented to our eyes by this lake, as we 
 emerged from the thick forests on the western side, 
 and trod with exultation its sandy shore, was indeed 
 lovely. The broad expanse of shining water, the 
 wooded banks and bosky islands, the summits of lofty 
 mountains beyond it, faintly flushed with sunset, the 
 deep sky, and the perfect solitude and silence, com 
 bined to produce a memorable impression. 
 
202 CAMP AND CAT] IN. 
 
 We camped near a group of hot springs, in one of 
 which we cooked our beans for breakfast by suspend 
 ing the kettle over night in the boiling tide. Beans 
 take a good while to " do," especially at such alti 
 tudes, where the temperature of boiling water is many 
 degrees lower than at sea-level. We regarded this 
 piece of cookery, therefore, as a culinary triumph. 
 
 Near our camp was another hot-spring, illustrating 
 in a curious way the precipitation of silica, to which I 
 have alluded in previous articles. The water emerged 
 at high temperature from a vent in the bottom of the 
 lake two or three feet from tlie shore. Coming in 
 contact with the cold water of the lake, it lost so 
 much heat by the mixture as to be forced to precipi 
 tate its silica; but this precipitation had always taken 
 place at a certain distance from the vent. In the 
 course of time, therefore, a wall of silica had been 
 built up through the lake-water, like a coffer-dam; 
 so that now the hot spring was completely protected 
 against the cold water, and stood in the lake like a 
 basin, with its surface several inches above the lake- 
 surface, and its hot current spilling over this self- 
 constructed brim. On the shore- side there was no 
 such wall. 
 
 The lake swarms with salmon-trout, weighing from 
 one to four pounds each. Many of them are afflicted 
 with a curious intestinal worm, of a different species 
 from the two which are already recognized as para 
 sites of the salmon genus in Europe. Too many of 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 203 
 
 these tape-worms are not good for a trout ; but five or 
 six do not seem to hurt him much. We had no diffi 
 culty in rejecting, from the great number which \ve 
 caught with hook and line in a short time, such as 
 were unfit for food. The wormy fellows bite the 
 best, which is strange, when one considers that they 
 have already more bait in them than is wholesome. 
 
 Thrasher was wild with enthusiasm about the views 
 to be obtained from every point around the lake ; and 
 it took the whole company to tear him away from 
 each successive promontory. By judiciously indul 
 ging him on occasions of peculiar importance, however, 
 we succeeded in bringing him to the outlet, at the 
 north-west corner of the lake, where the Yellowstone 
 proper begins. Here we camped in a beautiful grove 
 commanding a prospect of the lake, woods, moun 
 tains, and river, so lovely as to linger yet in my memo 
 ry, the last and the fairest picture of all. About 
 six miles below the lake, and again at eight miles, 
 there are groups of sulphur-springs and "mud- volca 
 noes." The presence of sulphur in these waters leads 
 to the formation of numerous salts, such as alum, &c., 
 and the precipitation by sublimation of beautiful 
 specimens of crystallized sulphur. These are very 
 fragile; and it severely taxed the ingenuity of our 
 party to pack them, in the absence of suitable materi 
 als, so as to safely transport them. (" The absence 
 of materials " is very poor stuff to pack things in, as 
 you will find out if you try it.) 
 
204 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 It was while venturing, in search of specimens, too 
 near the edge of a vehemently bubbling and roaring 
 caldron, that Thrasher slumped through the thin 
 crust, and took a steam-and-sulphtir bath up to his 
 waist. He scrambled out so quickly, however, that 
 he suffered no apparent effects, unless we were right 
 in attributing to chemical re-actions the increased 
 spottiness of his corduroys. 
 
 The largest "mud volcano," or geyser, is situated 
 on a steep hillside, and surrounded with trees. The 
 crater is about forty feet in diameter at the top, ami 
 contracts rapidly to less than half that size. By 
 cautiously approaching the edge, and seizing the 
 opportunity when the steam drifts away, a view may 
 be obtained of the dingy and dismal interior. At the 
 depth of about thirty feet may be seen the surface 
 of the boiling mass, consisting of very thin mud in 
 the most violent agitation. We saw nothing like an 
 eruption ; and the only proof of such an occurrence 
 is the condition of the surrounding trees, some of 
 which have been killed, while others (even young 
 and growing trees) are covered more or less with 
 mud. 
 
 About eighteen miles below the lake, the Yellow 
 stone plunges from its high level into tho upper 
 canon. Only a few rapids give warning of the ap 
 proaching change. The river runs between low but 
 steep, and sometimes vertical rocky banks, until, 
 bursting through a narrow gateway, it leapn down in 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 205 
 
 a fine cataract a hundred and forty feet. Thence it 
 flows tumultuously onward (re-enforced by Cascade 
 Creek, which tumbles into it from the West), through 
 a picturesque canon, for about one-third of a mile ; 
 and then comes the grand cataract, three hundred and 
 fifty feet in one unbroken plunge. The surface of the 
 country around rather increases than diminishes in alti 
 tude as we follow the river down. The canon is carved 
 in it; and the banks rise from twelve hundred to 
 fifteen hundred feet above the river in the bottom. 
 
 A curious architectural effect is given to the scene 
 by the peculiar form of the canon. The material of 
 the country just below the falls is largely composed 
 of soft clays, sand, tufa, volcanic ash and breccia, &c , 
 v/ith occasional masses (layers or boulders) of basalt 
 and other harder rocks. In this soft material the 
 agencies of rain, frost, and mountain-streams, have 
 wrought effectively. Every little brook or temporary 
 stream that spills into the Yellowstone at this point 
 from the surrounding highlands has cut a deep notch 
 of its own; and between these side-gulches great but 
 tresses are left standing in the main canon. These 
 would soon be carried away by the surface-sweeping 
 agencies mentioned, but for the fact that thc-ir forces 
 toward the river are protected by terminal rock- 
 masses too hard to be thus disintegrated and removed. 
 But their upper surfaces, between these termini and 
 the main bank, are sometimes deeply degraded, so 
 that the rocky points stand like pinnacles. We went 
 
206 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 out upon one or two of them, first descending some 
 what, then traversing a narrow neck (about a yard 
 wide, with a precipice on either hand), and then climb 
 ing up to the pinnacle. The feat is more perilous in 
 appearance than in reality; for the soft, ashy material 
 gives excellent footing, and, even if one slipped, one 
 might slide to the bottom without injury. Standing 
 upon the pinnacle is far more trying to the nerves. 
 Here one finds one s self upon a rock not larger than 
 a dinner-table, with an almost vertical precipice of 
 more than a, thousand feet on three sides, and a slim 
 connection with terra firma on the fourth. Most 
 people prefer, under the circumstances, to sit down : 
 so at least did we, and gathered composure by a brief 
 rest, before giving ourselves up to the contemplation 
 of one of the most magnificent scenes on earth. 
 
 From our point of observation we command a view 
 of several miles of the canon. To the north, it soon- 
 disappears by a sharp turn, and penetrates gloomier 
 scenes. We can see the black walls that overhang, 
 far away, its awful depths. Southward, and beneath 
 and around us, there is no gloom, but grandeur 
 steeped in glory. A thousand feet below us. the river, 
 tiny in the distance, stretches its ribbon of emerald, 
 embroidered with silver foam. The great walls of 
 the canon glow with barbaric splendor, in such hues 
 as Nature s palette seldom furnishes. The bright 
 yellow of the sulphury clay is splashed with blood- 
 red stains of iron, and striped here and there with 
 
WONDERS OF THE YELLOWSTONE. 207 
 
 black bands of lava. It is the " Schwarz Roth 
 Gold" of the ancient German banner, than which 
 there never was or will be a more gorgeous blazonry. 
 Above it the dark pine-woods finish the picture with 
 a green fringe against the bine depths of the sky ; 
 and, as the eye ranges up the long line of crested 
 pinnacles and shining precipices, it rests at last upon 
 the snowy column of the distant cataracts. It is too 
 far aw^ay to make its warning heard. This is the 
 banquet of the eye, and the ear is not invited. In 
 the clear, upper air we approach the perfect stillness 
 of which the poet sings, " that lucid interspace 
 twixt world and world," where dwell the gods, 
 
 " Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to rnar 
 Their secret, everlasting calm." 
 
 To bid farewell to such a scene is like descending 
 from the heights of heaven. Precious indeed is the 
 memory of so fair a vision, yet blent forever with the 
 pain t)f yearning. O silent splendors of solitude ! 
 shall we never greet you again? Verily, not as be 
 fore; for ye are now part of a National Park, and ye 
 have a superintendent, and are speedily to be provided 
 with a turnpike and a hotel, and daily stages connect 
 ing with the railroad ; and, when \ve revisit you, \vo 
 shall pay toll to the man who owns the staircase at 
 the pinnacle ; and the fair being who leans upon our 
 arm will view the scene through her lorgnette, and 
 say it is not so nice as Niagara, and hurry us away. 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OP WASHINGTON 
 TERRITORY. 
 
 ice ! Disconsolate drinkers hung about 
 the bar-rooms, sipping insipid cocktails and 
 cobblers, or playing "freeze out* in grim 
 irony, to decide who should have the first 
 lump out of that refrigerant cargo daily expected 
 from the North. Butter pathetically , swam about 
 on the platters ; cucumbers visibly wilted for disap 
 pointed hope ; fresh meat grew prematurely old with 
 sorrow ; the ice-cream shebangs shut up their busi 
 ness, and all over town might be heard the dia 
 bolical chuckle and supercilious snuffle of the tea 
 kettles, celebrating the triumph of hot water over 
 cold. Even the Templars couldn t stand it. That 
 worthy association had no scruples about appropriat 
 ing the convivial songs of all ages, and skillfully 
 injecting "cold water" into the place originally oc 
 cupied by " ruby wine," to adapt them for the uses of 
 reform ; but the strongest stomach in the fraternity 
 208 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 209 
 
 rebelled at the Bacchanalian choruses, " Warm water 
 for me!" "Tepid and bright in its liquid light," "In 
 the simmering stream our bro\vs we lave, and par 
 boil our lips in the crystal wave." For once, the all- 
 transforming wand of the Muse of Temperance was 
 powerless, and the melodeon of the Lodge "dried 
 up." This was the situation at Portland, Or. ; and 
 it was, to borrow the most expressive word in the 
 Chinook jargon, that ripest fruit of time, product 
 of all languages, essence of concentrated speech, it 
 was, I say, cult us : yes, Injns cultus, or, in feeble Saxon, 
 highly inconvenient, disgusting, demoralizing. 
 
 Happy Dalles City, meanwhile, reveled in ice. The 
 living were content, the unburied dead were comforta 
 ble, and topers were saved the additional sin of pro 
 fanity ; for the seductive bar-room sign of " Iced Mixed 
 Drinks" was not a taunting, fraudulent voice crying 
 in the sage-brush. The philosophic observer, inquir 
 ing as to the cause of this strange contrast, was in 
 formed that a mysterious ice-cave in Washington 
 Territory constituted a reserve upon which the Dalles 
 fell back in seasons when the improvidence of the 
 Oregonians, and some unusual irregularity in cli 
 mate, combined, exhausted the supply of the great 
 necessity of civilized life. 
 
 Moved by various individual motives, but united 
 in the desire to render thanks at headquarters for 
 this blessed relief, a small party of us formed the 
 plan of an excursion to the cave. There was a keen 
 
210 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 and portly Portlander, who cherished a secret inten 
 tion of building a hotel, constructing a wagon-road, 
 and creating out of the cave a fashionable ice-water 
 ing-place. There was a young, enthusiastic tourist 
 from the Mississippi Valley, who, having lived out 
 West till the West was East, had come to explore 
 the veritable Occident, beyond which there is none. 
 There was a veteran inhabitant, who goes out every 
 spring on snow-shoes, and "claims" the cave, under 
 an ingenious application of mining law, as a mineral 
 deposit, so as to obtain a monopoly of the ice-packing 
 business. And, finally, there was the present writer, 
 a person habitually animated by the purest impulses 
 known to reconstructed humanity, who joined the 
 party because he -wished to do so, than which no 
 reason could be more conclusive, or free from base 
 motives. 
 
 As we disembarked from the handsome steamer of 
 the Oregon Steam Navigation Company, near the 
 mouth of the White Salmon, we found ourselves as 
 sembled upon the sandy bank, as follows : four men, 
 four horses, and a huge quantity of bacon, crackers, 
 &c., together with a pair of blankets apiece. The 
 work of distributing the baggage, and packing it be 
 hind our saddles, so that it would not pound on a 
 trot, nor rattle on a gallop, nor quietly slip off on 
 a walk, so that the matches would not ignite upon 
 the coffee-pot, nor the bacon flavor the sugar, nor the 
 sardines burst among the crackers^ nor the candles 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 211 
 
 (for exploring the cave) be mangled by the knives 
 and spoons (for exploring the victuals), was not ac 
 complished without some difficulty. But at length 
 all was adjusted except the frying-pan, which would 
 not pack, and was accepted by the Veteran, with, some 
 profane grumbling, as a very unnecessary evil, which 
 ought by rights to be "slung to thunder," but was 
 unjustly slung to him instead. That frying-pan owes 
 its safety throughout our trip to the fact that it was 
 borrowed, and must be returned. The Veteran rode 
 ahead, brandishing it sullenly, like some new instru 
 ment of warfare, and we followed in single file. 
 
 It was a ride of some forty miles to the cave, 
 through the bewildering beauty and grandeur of the 
 Cascade Mountains. We galloped over high, breezy 
 table-lands; we looked down on Josselin s nestling 
 ranch, alive with cattle, and lovely with fruit-laden 
 orchards; we followed the narrow trail along the 
 steep mountain-side, the deep misty canon of the 
 White Salmon below us, and beyond it the leafy 
 mountains rising, ridge above ridge, until they were 
 veiled in the smoke of burning forests far away. 
 We threaded our way through thick wildernesses of 
 undergrowth, parting the branches with our hands, 
 and scarcely able to see before us the path, well worn 
 for the feet by patient pack-mules, but not yet quite 
 ready for a rider taller than a bundle of ice. Anon 
 we emerged into beautiful openings carpeted with 
 bunch-grass or wild oats, and dotted with stately 
 
212 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 oaks and pines, the ground kept smooth and lawny 
 by woodland fires, that creep silently from tuft to 
 tuft of grass or dry leaves, or smolder along the 
 course of fallen trunks, and kiss with burning, de 
 ceitful passion, as they pass, the feet of the giants of 
 the forest, that disdain to notice such trifles while 
 they can look abroad upon a measureless world and 
 sky. But now and then, favored by drought and 
 wind, the creeping fires grow bold, and spring like 
 tigers upon some feeble, dry old tree, wrapping it in 
 flame from root to crown ; or they gnaw at a sturdy 
 trunk till its strength is undermined, and then, some 
 fair, quiet day, like that on which we rode through 
 these solitudes, the overstrained column gives way 
 suddenly, and with a groan, a rustle of unavailing 
 resistance, a vain wringing of leafy hands, and wild 
 tossing of rugged arms, a crackling, a crashing, a 
 great rush and sweep, and a final heavy boom as of 
 far artillery, waking the echoes of the pitying hills 
 a tree falls ! Beautiful, but ah ! how sad, were the 
 belief, that imprisoned within it was a conscious 
 Dryad conscious, but not immortal to feel her 
 life carried downward in that mighty fall, into the 
 hopeless abyss of annihilation ; or, sadder yet, to lie 
 thereafter prone in the forest, and wait the deliver 
 ance even of utter destruction at the merciful hands 
 of Time and Decay! 
 
 But now we stand upon the crest of a high, steep 
 ridge, down which, with slow and careful steps, we 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 213 
 
 must lead our horses. At the bottom rushes the 
 swift White Salmon, which we cross upon a frail, 
 swaying bridge to climb the rocky height upon the 
 other side, and mount again to gallop through the 
 woods. West of the river the surface rises in irregu 
 lar terraces, the results of successive basaltic over 
 flows. The rocky ridges, peeping through the soil, 
 cross our path at intervals ; and the fine dust rising 
 from the trail beneath our horses feet is the same in 
 character as that which daily chases the wagons on 
 the roads over the vast volcanic highlands between 
 the Columbia and the Snake. These rugged out 
 crops are the haunts of the graceful rattlesnake and 
 the vivacious yellow-jacket. My acquaintance with 
 one individual of the latter, though brief, was long 
 enough to be fatal to him, and memorable to me. 
 Our party was quietly jogging through the forest, and 
 my eyes were fixed, with mild lack of interest, upon 
 the crupper of the steady beast that bore the tourist, 
 when suddenly that respectable charger stopped, tried 
 to kick with all his feet at once, reared, plunged, 
 bucked, and revolved his tail with furious rapidity 
 in a plane at right angles with the axis of his body. 
 A moment after, my own steed began a similar series 
 of antics, under the attacks of a host of little ban 
 dits in golden mail, whose retreat we had invaded. 
 I laughed aloud at the novel situation ; but the insult 
 was terribly avenged. Straight out of the empty air 
 came a raging cavalier to answer the challenge, and 
 
214 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 we fought it out in half a second. He insisted on 
 his right to choose ground, weapons, and distance ; to 
 wit, my hand, his sting, and considerably less than 
 nothing. His arrangements were so well made that 
 ho was well "into" me before I got "onto" him. 
 Result : one small dead yellow-jacket, of no account 
 whatever, and a hand and arm nearly as useless, i 
 <k gained flesh " for an hour with astonishing speed 
 losing sight of knuckles and sinews; and, had I that 
 day presented my hand to an aged, purblind father, 
 he would have had cause to say, " The voice is the 
 voice of Jacob ; but the hand is the hand of the boy 
 in Pickwick." Some good whiskey was wasted (as 
 the veteran opined) in external lotions ; but for a day 
 or two I could only hang up the useless member, and 
 make believe I had lost an arm at Gettysburg, and 
 deserved well of a grateful republic. Since that 
 time, I have had opportunity to study the yellow- 
 jacket ; and I know that, like other desperate charac 
 ters who hold life cheap, he is to be respected and 
 feared. He who would merely kill you may be a 
 coward, after all, and you need not leave the country 
 on his account ; but he who hates you, and, in com 
 parison with that passion, cares not whether you kill 
 him or no, is dangerous. Avoid him if you can, treat 
 him kindly when you may, smash him when you 
 must ; but be sure, that, nine times out of ten, he will 
 first put dagger into you. 
 
 We strike into the well-trodden trail of the In- 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 215 
 
 dians, and frequently meet cavalcades of them re 
 turning, heavy-laden, from the great huckleberry- 
 patches, where they collect their winter store. Others 
 of them are spearing or netting salmon at the cas 
 cades of the Columbia and Des Chutes, and, with 
 dried fish and fruit galore, they will pass a merry 
 winter in their squalid manner. These fragmentary 
 tribes of the Upper Columbia Klikatats, and what 
 not are not so handsome as the Nez Perce s, farther 
 to the north-east; but there are now and then fine 
 faces among them, laughing-eyed young squaws, 
 old men with judicial brows, straight, strong ath 
 letes, and the children all promise a future beauty 
 which privation, hardship, and disease too surely 
 erase as they grow up." Was there a time when the 
 Red Man roamed, &c., contented and happy, valiant 
 and handsome, the perfect and worthy child of Na 
 ture V Show us the relics of former decent habi 
 tations, and good victuals, and we may, perchance, 
 answer in the affirmative. But perpetually living out 
 of doors, without clothes to speak of, and subsisting 
 upon food in precarious supply and frequently of 
 inferior quality, is not calculated to develop a high 
 type of physical, any more than of mental manhood. 
 If this doctrine be held to cast a slur upon Adam, 
 who represents to us the state of savage innocence to 
 which some people think we ought to return, I can 
 only say that Adam s career was a disgraceful one. 
 He had a better chance than the rest of us, and he 
 
216 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 ruined himself and his descendants by a piece of real 
 Indian laziness and folly. Lolling about, and eating 
 the spontaneous fruits of the earth, instead of tilling 
 Ihe garden with industry, is just his sin, and theirs. 
 This copper-colored Adam, who was placed in the 
 Eden of the New World, has mismanaged it in the 
 same way. He and his dusky Eve have loitered and 
 idled away the centuries, living carelessly upon the 
 bounty of the passing time. Verily, by reason of 
 family resemblance to Adam (and, for that matter, to 
 Cain also), the Indians should be set down as a very 
 early offshoot from the Eden stock, transplanted be 
 fore the parent tree had begun its better growth. 
 
 "Too much preaching and philosophizing," says the 
 Tourist, who is interested in .the squaws and babies, 
 and not at all in Adam. In deference to his wishes, I 
 subside into silence and a trot. These Indians all talk 
 Chinook, which is the most fascinating of tongues. 
 Being the product of a deliberate agreement of men, 
 a compromise, it is said, between the Hudson s Bay 
 Company s agents, the Jesuit missionaries, and the 
 once powerful Chinook tribe, it is, of course, supe 
 rior to those misshapen dialects that spring up of 
 themselves, no one knows how. From the French, 
 Spanish, English, Indian, and Hawaiian, these wise 
 etymologists took what was best in each, and the 
 result comprises melody, force, and wondrous laconic 
 expressiveness. It is none of your tame tongues, that 
 can be spoken without gesture. Little boys declaim- 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 217 
 
 ing in jargon could not possibly retain in nervous 
 grasp the seams of their trouser-legs. One of the 
 most frequent words is kahkwa, meaning " thus," or 
 " like this," and invariably accompanied with picto 
 rial illustration of movement or feature. Let us ad 
 dress this ancient chieftain, solemnly riding at the 
 head of a long train of " cayuse " horses, laden with his 
 household, his "traps," and his huckleberries: " Kla- 
 liowya sikhs?" (" How dost thou, venerable sir?") "kali 
 mika klatawa?" ("and whither journeyest? ") " Nika 
 klatawa kopa Simcoe. Mika King George, lilikum, Boston 
 tilikum?" ("I travel to the Simcoe Reservation. Are 
 ye of King George s men, that is to say, Englishmen, 
 or of the Boston tribe, that is to say, Yankees? ") 
 " Nesika Boston tilikum. King George cultus." ("We 
 are Americans all, and regard King George with 
 loathingandcontem.pt.") " Okook mika klootchman?" 
 we ask, (" Is yon beauteous being thy bride ? ") 
 " Nawitka" ("Yes.") "Siah kopa lamonti?" ("Is it 
 far to the mountains?" lamonti, from the French 
 la montagne.) " Wake siah ; wayltut hyas kloshe, okook 
 sun ; kali cldlchil kahkwa tomolla keekwillie kahkwa ; 
 tomolla moosum kopa lamonti." (" Xot far ; good 
 road to-day, steep; to-morrow, low and level, thus 
 and thus ; to-morrow night a camp at the moun 
 tain.") A very commonplace conversation, but full 
 of music, as you will discover, if you read it aloud, 
 Mademoiselle, with your sweet voice. But the Vet 
 eran is loping far ahead. Jargon has no charms for 
 
218 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 him: he has prattled too many years with these babes 
 of the wood. 
 
 It is thirty-five miles from the mouth of the White 
 Salmon to the ice-cave; and over this trail by which 
 we travel the ice is " packed " upon the backs of 
 mules and horses. We meet upon the road the 
 leaded train. On each beast two sacks, each of 
 which contained, at starting, a block of ice weighing, 
 perhaps, t\vo hundred pounds, but destined to melt 
 away to half its original dimensions before it reaches 
 the steamboat-landing. By this simple device, as 
 the toilsome day wears on, the burden diminishes, 
 andj while it grows lighter, distills refreshing cool 
 ness on the bearer. The dividends of the business 
 would be larger, however, as the Portlander acutely 
 remarks, if the ice were better packed at the cave. 
 But this is a fair sample of the mining industry of 
 the coast. Happy that enterprise, whereof the drip 
 pings only equal the savings! 
 
 The sun drops into the hazy west as we ride into 
 a forest glade, and the Veteran exclaims, " Here she 
 is ! " We resolve upon an immediate preliminary 
 examination of the cave, and subsequent supper and 
 sleep. All that presented itself was an opening in 
 the ground a dozen feet square, formed by the fall of 
 a portion of the roof. We had passed, within a few 
 hours, numerous openings of this kind, the mention 
 of which I have omitted for artistic reasons. I would 
 not fritter away the reader s interest in minor caverns 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 219 
 
 on the way. The examination of several, however, 
 qualifies me to give wise explanation of their nature. 
 
 Thcso caves are channels in the basalt, through 
 which the latest flows of melted matter passed. The 
 phenomenon of a stream of lava walled and roofed 
 with congealed material of the same character may 
 be observed at almost any active volcano. I have 
 seen it on the sides of Vesuvius during a quiet erup 
 tion. If the source of such a stream is suddenly 
 choked, the lava will continue to flow for some dis 
 tance, protected from rapid cooling by the crust 
 above, and thus a portion of the channel will be left 
 empty. It is not difficult to recognize this process in 
 the basalt caves of Washington Territory. Their 
 walls are covered with the traces of the departing fluid 
 matter, and on their floors may be found masses of the 
 congealed lava, still fibrous from its last vain effort 
 to follow the current. It looks, my young friend, 
 like that piece of abortive molasses candy which 
 you threw away in despair, because it got so stiff 
 and would not "pull." But whence the ice that 
 strange dweller in these homes of fire? That, also, 
 you .shall know. 
 
 Only a few of these caverns contain ice ; and they 
 are connected at both ends with the open air, by 
 means of passages formed by the falling-ill of the 
 crust, or the flssuring of the rocks by frost, or, finally, 
 by the gradual denudation of the surface, exposing 
 the ancient channels themselves. The intense rei ri- 
 
220 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 gerating airs of winter are thus allowed free passage. 
 Alternately with these, the percolating waters of the 
 surface find their way into the caves in such small 
 quantities that they freeze, layer upon layer, solid 
 from the bottom ; and the store of ice thus accumu 
 lated thaws slowly during the summer. This sum 
 mer thaw is retarded, not only by the covering which 
 protects the ice from the direct rays of the sun. but 
 also by the fact that the melting ice at one end of 
 the cave, through which the summer draught enters, 
 itself refrigerates the air, and maintains a freezing- 
 temperature at the other end. We noted in the 
 main ice-cave, which we explored, a decided differ 
 ence in the degrees of thaw at different points. 
 This difference was due to the cause above men 
 tioned; and I had the honor to determine it by slid 
 ing unintentionally down a glacial stalagmite, and 
 observing practically the degree of moisture upon 
 its surface. The popular report, that, as fast as ice 
 is removed from the cave, it continually and at all 
 seasons forms again, is without foundation. The 
 amount of it in the cave is not very great, though as 
 yet undetermined; and what there is, perpetually, 
 though slowly, wastes away. The main body of ice 
 has a level surface, indicating subterranean drainage 
 at a certain point, above which water does not remain 
 in the cave. There are a few stalactites, and still 
 more numerous stalagmites, here and there. One of 
 these is a superb, transparent hillock, rising nearly 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 221 
 
 to the roof, and christened "the Iceberg." Here I 
 took my slide. 
 
 The entrance used by the ice-miners is the opening 
 in the roof already alluded to. At this point the 
 channel turns at right angles, and this sharp turn 
 left the roof with less support, so that it fell in. We 
 followed the cave more than two hundred feet in one 
 direction from this entrance, and perhaps five hun 
 dred in the other. The short arm of it contains 
 most of the ice, and the long arm simply reaches out 
 through fallen rocks and rubbish to daylight. The 
 terminus of the cave in the other direction was 
 reached by the Tourist, who, being a small man and 
 an ambitious, hatcheted his way over the iceberg, and 
 crawled out of sight into a fissure beyond, from the 
 depths of which his voice was presently heard, an 
 nouncing that it was " too tight a fit" for him to go 
 farther. Tableau: Tourist in the hole, triumphant; 
 Writer perched on the iceberg, curious, but cautious; 
 portly Portlander, halfway to the entrance, resolving 
 to have that hole made bigger when the hotel is 
 built; and Veteran at the entrance, not caring a 
 straw. 
 
 The dimensions of the cavern are not large. It 
 does not exceed thirty feet in width, nor (at present, 
 \vith the bottom full of ice and fallen fragments of 
 basalt) twenty in height. Others in the neighbor 
 hood are larger, but do not contain so much ice. 
 From the nature of their origin, it is not likely that 
 
222 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 any of them possess extraordinary dimensions, ex 
 cept in length. In this direction they extend for 
 miles; though they can seldom be followed under 
 ground, without labor in removing rocks, &c., for 
 more than a few hundred feet. It was in the present 
 instance the indefatigable Tourist, who, with the do 
 cile Writer in his wake, made a second visit to Hades 
 after supper, and, entering by the familiar chasm, 
 found the new exit far to the south, and emerged 
 thereby, to the great amazement of the party by the 
 camp-fire, under whose unconscious feet they had 
 passed, to re-appear in an unexpected quarter. 
 
 If you ever visit the cave, don t let the Veteran 
 persuade you that it is necessary to ride two miles 
 farther to camp, on account of water. There are 
 pools of clear ice-water within it; and behind a tall 
 pine, not far away, you will find two wooden troughs 
 half sunk in the earth. One of them is very leaky; 
 the other not so much. Let one of you stand at the 
 bottom of the cave, and another lower from above 
 the coffee-pot, made fast to a lariat. A third can 
 run to and fro with the precious liquid ; and in a few 
 minutes you will have water for your horses in the 
 trough. The Veteran will sit on a log, scornfully at 
 first, but finally snort his approbation. At least, that 
 was the order of operations on the present occasion. 
 
 The joys of camping out I do not undertake to 
 describe. In this effeminate day, when people sit in 
 their parlors and read about things, instead of doing 
 
THE ICE-CAVES OF WASHINGTON. 223 
 
 them, thank goodness there is something left which 
 can not be put into words ! There is a period of per 
 fect peace, when, rising at midnight, and putting a 
 fresh log on the fire, one gazes placidly about upon 
 his sleeping comrades, lights a pipe, and communes 
 with himself, the dancing flame, and the solemn, 
 silent forest. Interjected between the jollity of the 
 evening rneal and the business-like activity of break 
 fast, packing, and mounting, this midnight pipe of 
 peace is like a whiff from another w 7 orld. Ho\v 
 ridiculously different from sitting up in bed, and 
 lighting the gas ! 
 
 Another thing which I omit is a description of fair 
 St. Helen s and grand Mount Adams. How they ac 
 company us with their eternal beauty all the way ! 
 How delightful is the change from the gloomy caves 
 to the paradise that lies just beneath the edge of the 
 melting snows on Mount Adams ! There innumerable 
 varieties of flowers bloom, even at this late season, 
 the whole Flora of the coast, but dw arfed by their 
 Alpine locality into forms of infinite delicacy, and, 
 hovering among them, multitudes of humming-birds, 
 who have gathered here to find again the blossoms of 
 June, vanished long since from the South. Streams 
 alive with trout (liyiu tenas salmon) and white goats 
 on the snowy fields above, to tax the skill and daring 
 of the more ambitious sportsman I could give you 
 a fine description of all these things; but T must stop 
 here. And morally it is quite as well, for the smoke 
 
224 
 
 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 in the air prevented us from seeing Adams, or visit 
 ing the Paradise of Humming-birds but which is, 
 nevertheless, there ; and so you will find out, when, 
 next July, you add to your summer trip along the 
 grand Columbia a charming three-days excursion to 
 the region I have faintly depicted. 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 1 
 
 HE ascent of the Rocky Mountains from the 
 east begins so far away, that it is useless to 
 include the whole of it in this brief sketch. 
 Even at Omaha, one is nine hundred and 
 sixty-six feet above sea-level ; and, in traveling west 
 ward to Cheyenne, one trundles smoothly up hill, 
 until, by imperceptible degrees, the altitude of six 
 thousand and forty-one feet has been attained. The 
 bugbear of the Rocky Mountains, and the way it 
 vanishes when assailed, are a perpetual joke on man 
 kind. One is amused, in the midst of the monoto 
 nous iteration of buffalo- grass and sky, by the re 
 currence of the reflection that this is the forbidden 
 barrier between East and West, about as much of 
 a barrier as the hole in the fence through which one 
 used, in comparative infancy, to kiss the little girl 
 that lived next door, a positive opportunity, an in 
 vitation, not a hindrance. 
 
 But if you think, fair reader, that the rest of the 
 fence is like this easy gap in it, just come along with 
 
 April, 1871. 
 
 225 
 
22G CAMP AND CA1UN. 
 
 me, and climb one of the pickets. We are going, 
 two or three of us, to ascend Gray s Peak. 
 
 From Cheyenne to Denver is a ride over the Plains 
 of about a hundred and ten miles. The new railroad 
 is excellently built and stocked. The view from the 
 car-window is enlivened by glimpses of prairie-dogs 
 erect on stern at the doors of their burrows, and now 
 and then an owl blinking in the sun. The dogs and 
 owls do live together in the proportion of a great 
 many dogs to one owl : wisdom is in the minority in 
 this world. But don t you believe that story about 
 the rattlesnakes being members of the same happy 
 families. As far as I can find out, the snakes inhabit 
 the holes, as the first of them may have lived in Eden, 
 after the ejection of the original tenants. Believe 
 what good you choose about all other branches of 
 creation, but never you 1st up on snakes : that way 
 lies heresy. 
 
 There are antelopes too, charming compounds of 
 timidity and curiosity, their slender legs carrying 
 them swiftly away as the train approaches, and their 
 slender noses, with skillful leverage, whirling them 
 about to sniff and stare. But we do not need these 
 petty distractions; for, lo ! vision denied till now 
 through all the weary way the rreat mountains 
 themselves now loom up, silent and majestic on the 
 \vest, and accompany us, hour after hour, with their 
 shining crests, and purple canons, and floating wreaths 
 of cloud. The sun sets behind them, and their glo- 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 227 
 
 ries vanish in a cold, gray monotone. You should see 
 them at sunrise, if you would learn their infinite beau 
 ty. Then the but this won t do : we have got to 
 climb Gray s Peak, and we are using up all the adjec 
 tives beforehand. That s Gray s Peak yonder ; and 
 that other, close by, is Irwin s. Away to the north is 
 Long s; and terminating our view of the range to 
 the south is Pike s, grandest in outline of them all. 
 This view of two hundred miles of the Rocky Moun 
 tains in one picture, from the Plains by Denver, is 
 not surpassed in the w r orld. The Alps seen from the 
 top of Milan Cathedral are lovely, but too faint and 
 far. There is a place on the old road from Dalles 
 City to Canon City in Oregon, where a similar pano 
 ramic view of the Cascade Range may be obtained, 
 including Shasta, Jefferson, The Sisters, Hood, St. 
 Helena, Adams, and even (to a good eye, favored with 
 a clear day, a first-rate glass, and a fine imagination) 
 Baker, and Rainier. That view is equal to this ; but 
 it is a great deal harder to reach. So, considering all 
 things, we may decide that the display of the moun 
 tains before Denver is the finest thing of the kind 
 ever provided by Nature, and developed by railroads. 
 This thrifty settlement, by the way, is the new col 
 ony of Greeley. Two hundred houses already, and 
 not a solitary one last spring. The inhabitants all 
 have more or less capital, and so they will escape the 
 poverty-stricken children of most pioneer settlements. 
 There are only one or two Democrats in town, not 
 
228 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 enough to keep the Republican party from splitting. 
 And there are no liquor-stores at all, a miracle in 
 these parts. Is it partially accounted for by the very 
 near neighborhood of Evans (only a couple of miles 
 away), formerly a temporary terminus of the railroad, 
 and a very busy place, where now there is scarcely any 
 thing left but saloons and bars? Let us hope that the 
 Greeleyites will let Evans alone. 
 
 But here we are at Denver, a pretty town, more 
 substantially built than any other of the interior, not 
 even excepting Salt Lake. Denver has three rail 
 roads already, the Denver Pacific to Cheyenne / the 
 Kansas Pacific to Kansas City and St. Louis, and the 
 Colorado Pacific to Golden City, all shortened, to 
 save the valuable time of hotel clerks and runners, 
 to the D. P., the K. P., and the C. P. Remember, 
 moreover, that, if you take the D. P., you must be 
 going to Cheyenne to connect with the U. P. : so mind 
 your P s and cues, or you ll lose your baggage. 
 
 The Colorado Pacific, with sublime audacity, strikes 
 straight at the heart of the mountains What it has 
 to do with the ocean whence it borrows half its name, 
 can only be seen by continuing the line of the road 
 through a dozen or more of the highest ranges in the 
 country. This process is easy on a map with a lead- 
 pencil ; but drawing a line is not drawing a train. 
 However, there is inspiration in names, and nobody 
 knows what may happen. A few years ago any Paci 
 fic railroad was chimerical : a few years hence all of 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 229 
 
 them may be achieved and trite, and we may be 
 laughing at the Kamtschatka Baltic, or the Cape of 
 Good Hope Mediterranean, or the Patagonia Arctic. 
 
 Having had our joke, let us take our tickets. Fif 
 teen miles, or thereabout, is the distance to Golden 
 City, the present terminus of the railroad. The route 
 winds among grassy foothills capped with basalt, that 
 seem to be a compromise between rugged mountain 
 and rolling plain. Golden is nestled among them, 
 a thriving, ambitious town, endowed with fire-clay, 
 coal-mines, and a fine seminary. A territorial school 
 of mines is about to be established here; possibly the 
 students will find the locality more agreeable, but 
 less profitable, than Georgetown or Central, where the 
 arts of mining and metallurgy are extensively illus 
 trated in practice. 
 
 Not desiring to visit Central at present, we will 
 cross over from Golden to the main stage-road for 
 Georgetown. The excellent coaches of the Colorado 
 Stage Company bear us to Idaho City, and hence up 
 the long, magnificent Virginia Canon to Georgetown. 
 
 Idaho (let us drop the " City : " most of these moun 
 tain towns were founded for metropolitan purposes, 
 and their high-sounding titles now have a ring of dis 
 appointment; so that the inhabitants save themselves 
 both time and mortification by dropping the sugges 
 tive appendix: hence Denver, Golden, Central, Vir 
 ginia, Ruby, Empire, Diamond, Star, and what not; 
 hence, also, Idaho) is picturesquely situated at the 
 
230 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 meeting of two or three canons, the main one being 
 that of Clear Creek. Certain hot-springs give the 
 town a permanent importance as a watering-place : 
 and numerous mines in the neigborhood bestow upon 
 it the flickering reflections of their fluctuating pros 
 perity. The ten miles of Clear Creek Canon that lie 
 between this and Georgetown are full of fine rock 
 scenery, not unlike portions of the Via Mala in Switz 
 erland, though here the snowy peaks are not in view. 
 People say, moreover, that the legendary and his 
 toric charms which add so much to the attractions of 
 Nature in foreign lands are wanting in our own; but 
 that is a mistake. If you don t believe it, talk to the 
 driver. The guide told you, somewhere in the Alps, 
 did he? of a peasant who found the treasures of the 
 mountain-elves, and when he \vent to look for them 
 again, with a party of friends to carry them away, 
 lo ! there was nothing but barren rock. Bless you, 
 that happens here every day ! Up yonder, a thou 
 sand feet over your head, is a white rock. That is 
 the outcrop of the Salamander Ledge. The man 
 that owned it knew 7 it was the mother-lode of the 
 Kocky Mountains; the geologist who examined it was 
 sure it was the real "igneous fatuous " rock, and no 
 mistake; and the company that bought it proposed 
 to pay the national debt, after satiating their stock 
 holders. But there never Vas a pound of ore discov 
 ered in it, except the specimens that went East, and 
 there is a touch of the legendary in them even. Beat 
 that story in the Alps, if you can. 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 231 
 
 They talk, too, about ruined castles, stately old 
 rookery on a hill, desolate cloister in the valley, 
 knight went to Palestine in olden days, villain way 
 laid knight, began suit to lady, rascally priest mixed 
 up in the business, and sp on. Not a bit more pa 
 thetic than the history of yonder magnificent pile, the 
 Megatherium Mill, with its pristine splendor, knights 
 and ladies (pardon me, Madam, for alluding to them), 
 its suits and battles, its final abandonment and pres 
 ent desolation. The lively dwelling-house beyond is 
 a monastery now, and a monk in red flannel shirt and 
 long beard smokes a pipe there. 
 
 Ruined aqueducts of the Campagna? We can 
 match them too. Look at these flumes and ditches, 
 and grim, toothless wheels, sported by the current 
 they once controlled! See the heaps of boulders, 
 every one of which has been lifted by zealous hands, 
 if perchance the philosopher s stone might lie beneath. 
 Yes, the romance of the past is here. These wild 
 scenes are clothed, as truly as those of the elder world, 
 with the ambitions, hopes, disappointments, and tra 
 gedies of the human heart. 
 
 But all around us here is the life and busy indus 
 try of the present. Fortunes are carved out of these 
 rocks ; and Clear Creek Canon discharges to the wide 
 plains andHhe wider world^ its steady stream of wealth. 
 Of course, I don t mean to say this is romantic. I 
 throw in the remark merely for the information of 
 capitalists, and to satisfy my conscience, which might 
 
CAMP AND CABJN. 
 
 otherwise be quickened unpleasantly by some justice- 
 loving citizen of Colorado, who would fire a revolver 
 or a leading article at me to remind me that the terri 
 tory is by no means dead yet. 
 
 Here is Georgetown, imbosomed in the mountains 
 which overshadow it on every side, and leave it only 
 space enough to be comfortable and beautiful. It is, 
 indeed, a lovely site, and doubly so by comparison 
 with the awkwardness of Central, squeezed into its 
 three or four precipitous canons as one rubs putty in 
 a crack. Georgetown possesses, however, what Cen 
 tral doesn t even claim, a good hotel. On the other 
 hand, let us be just, and then fear not, the mines 
 about Central produce a great deal more money at 
 this time ; the achievements of the districts around 
 Georgetown being but respectable at present, and 
 magnificent in future. 
 
 Perhaps you think we are coming but slowly to 
 Gray s Peak. Not so. While I have beguiled the 
 way with gossip, we have steadily ascended, until now 
 we are some nine thousand feet above the sea. You 
 wouldn t have a man begin to climb a mountain at 
 nine thousand feet, and call that the outset ? lleflect, 
 moreover, that I had a clear right to begin at the At 
 lantic Ocean. Where should we be now in that case? 
 Certainly not out of the clutches of Chica^%. Sleep 
 in peace this night : to-morrow s sunrise will see us 
 far on our way. 
 
 u To-morrow s sunrise" is a phrase carefully chosen ; 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 233 
 
 for the sun makes no haste to rise in these deep canons. 
 We may even, on our winding route, enjoy half a 
 dozen sunrises, plunging again, after each one, into 
 the chill shadows of last night. But gloriously tipped 
 with gold are the crest-ridges, and steadily the luster 
 crawls down the steep rock-faces, until at last the 
 glowing day is everywhere, save in those profound 
 coverts where the cold, clear springs are hidden under 
 tufted mosses and closely-twined arms of Dryads, and 
 in the subterranean recesses of shaft, or tunnel, or 
 stope, where the swart miner swings the sledge in per 
 petual midnight. 
 
 Mounted on the active, sure-footed horses of this 
 region (which have better endurance than the coursers 
 of the plains, as the Denver boys found out when 
 they bet their money at the Georgetown races), we 
 follow the wagon-road up the canon of the north fork 
 of the middle branch, or the middle fork of the south 
 branch, or something to that effect, of South Clear 
 Creek. The stream was once well named. They say 
 one could count the trout in its waters only they 
 were too many to be counted. .But sluices and tail 
 ings have long ago corrupted its lower course. Only 
 up here towards its source is it still worthy, in some 
 degree, of its pretty title. The turnpike follows it 
 patiently, under many difficulties, now clinging along 
 a steep bluff far above it, now crossing it by a rustic 
 bridge, now peacefully enjoying for a season its close 
 company through a bit of fertile or gravelly bottom- 
 
234 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 land. The mountains crowd us all they can, and 
 now and then they seem to have cornered us entirely. 
 Just above Georgetown there is apparently no way 
 out of the cul-de-sac into which they have driven our 
 brave little creek ; but a way there is, and through it 
 Clear Creek leaps into Georgetown. Of course the 
 gap is called the Devil s Gate, or something similarly 
 diabolical. It is the Western way to clap the infer- 
 nalest names on the heavenliest places, flying, in such 
 cases as this, moreover, in the face of Scripture, which 
 informs us that the Devil s gate is not narrow, but 
 broad and easy. 
 
 The mountain-sides are still covered with timber, 
 though sadly scarred by great fires which the reck 
 lessness of the inhabitants occasions or permits. The 
 straight, dead pines, first charred and afterwards 
 bleached, bristle like gray porcupine-quills on the 
 back of the range. In the more accessible places 
 wood-cutters are at work, felling the dry timber, and 
 shooting it down the steep precipices to the valley. 
 All along the base of the mountains are the mouths 
 of inchoate tunnels, reminding us of those curious 
 organisms that begin with a mouth only, and develop 
 their bowels afterward. High above, sometimes fif 
 teen hundred feet over the stream, are dumps and 
 windlasses, showing where the silver-veins have been 
 found. So many promising veins have been discov 
 ered on these bare summits, that it is almost a maxim 
 with some of the prospectors that, 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 235 
 
 " A good silver-mine 
 Is above timber-line 
 Ten times out of nine." 
 
 But let us drop the subject. That way lies science. 
 
 At Brownsville, three miles distant from George 
 town, are the Brown and Terrible Mines, and the 
 smelting-works of the former company. The mines 
 are situated up a steep, rocky gulch, above the Brown 
 works, the Brown Mine being uppermost, and the 
 Terrible between. The ore extracted from the Brown 
 is brought down on an aerial tramway, the rails of 
 which are tightly-stretched wire-cables ; and in this 
 way the Brown transportation goes on through the 
 air, over the heads of the Terrible people. The 
 smoke and fumes from the smelting-works float up 
 the canon for a long distance, and supply the cloud 
 hitherto lacking in this morning s spotless sky. 
 
 Three miles farther, through the constantly nar 
 rowing and rising valley, bring us to the settlement 
 and the handsome mill of the Baker Company. It is 
 this company to which we are indebted for the good 
 road we have traveled thus far : and indeed the bless 
 ing is not yet exhausted; for the company s mine 
 is not far from the summit of Gray s Peak, and the 
 company s teams have made a capital wagon-road up 
 to the mines. 
 
 At this point w 7 e leave Clear Creek, and follow up 
 a tributary known as Kelso. The road now mounts 
 more steeply. The pines and quaking-asps, dwarfed 
 
236 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 somewhat in stature, come close to us as we ride, as 
 though they were lonesome, and huddled along the 
 road to catch a social glance or word from a passing 
 traveler. The birds and squirrels, so plenty a mile 
 below, suddenly cease to be seen or heard. The pecul 
 iar stillness of the upper air makes itself felt. Pres 
 ently we have emerged from the last belt of timber, 
 and are alone with heaven. 
 
 No, not yet! Hundreds of feet still above us, on 
 the side of Kelso Mountain, are the buildings of the 
 Baker Mine. A shanty may mean any thing ; but a 
 house with a chimney is a sign of permanent habita 
 tion. At that warning finger, Solitude gets up and 
 goes. Nevertheless, barring the Baker Mine, the 
 scene is grand as Nature before the age of man. On 
 the right, Kelso Mountain turns to us a rounded, con 
 ical form, grass-clad. On the left, McClellan Moun 
 tain presents a circling ridge ; the face turned toward 
 us being as steep and rugged as it can be, and not fall 
 over. Whoever has ascended Vesuvius, and remem 
 bers how the central cone arises from within the sur 
 rounding precipices of a former crater, will compre 
 hend the general position of the parts of this wild 
 scene. But these rocks are not volcanic. The farther 
 side of McClellan is sloping, like this side of Kelso ; 
 and the farther side of Kelso is rough and perpendicu 
 lar, like this side of McClellan ; and the ridge of Mc 
 Clellan does not completely surround Kelso, but at its 
 farther end soars up into two peaks, and there stops. 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 237 
 
 These two peaks are Gray s and Irwin s; and, as we 
 journey, they come into full near view from behind the 
 head of Kelso. 
 
 I am glad enough that the scene is not volcanic. 
 This gray granite, or gneiss, has far greater variety 
 and beauty of form, and gives us delicate shadows. 
 Though it may lack the imperial purples of trachytes 
 and tufas seen in the distance, it does not offer us 
 their horrid blackness seen near by. Besides, there 
 are dainty grasses and blossoms that sometimes hang 
 by one hand from clefts in the granite, and swing in 
 the wind. Yosemite, Smoky Valley, and Gray s Peak, 
 let the lava people, with their Snake Caiions, Sho- 
 shone Falls, and gloomy Dalles, match this granite 
 trio if they can ! 
 
 It is lucky that our path doesn t lie up that face of 
 McClellan Mountain. Lie? It couldn t : it would 
 have to stand. No mortal could climb there without 
 wings. I?ut what is that a thousand feet up the clilf ? 
 A house ye gods! a boarding-house! The glass 
 shows us fragments of a zigzag trail, interspersed 
 with ladders where the precipices are otherwise im 
 passable. Now we see, at the foot of the cliif, another 
 house, and between the two, fine lines, like a spider s 
 web, stretched through a thousand feet of air. That 
 is the somewhat celebrated Stevens Mine. The men, 
 lumber, provisions, &c., are all carried up, and the 
 ore is all brought down, by means of one of the in 
 genious wire- tramways now becoming common in 
 
238 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 Colorado. How the mine was ever discovered, I can 
 not say : somebody must have " lit on it." 
 
 The summit is close before us now, glistening with 
 patches of snow. On the neck between Gray and 
 Irwin, there is a regular turnover collar of a drift. 
 It looks small enough here ; but you couldn t pass it 
 without a twenty-foot tunnel in the snow. There s 
 not much life up here, scarcely even a mountain- 
 goat or a snow-quail for a six-hundred-dollar break 
 fast. Bill, here, will tell you that story: he hasn t 
 opened his mouth the whole way. 
 
 " Well, tain t much of a story ; but it gives the 
 Georgetown boys the deadwood on Dick Irwin and 
 me, and they hain t let up on us yet, nor wont s long s 
 they kin git anybody to swop lies with em. How 
 ever, this yer s no lie. Ye see Dick and me that 
 thar mountain was named after Dick ; that is to say, 
 these two was ary one Irwin s Peak, and whichary 
 wasn t Irwin s was Gray s, and nobody knov?ed. Gray, 
 he was a great weed-sharp down East somewhar, and 
 he gin so many names to this yer bunch-grass and 
 stuff, that they thought they d gin his name to the 
 highest peak, though I don t see it myself. So these 
 scientific fellers kept a-comin up here, and a-meas- 
 urin , and they couldn t agree. Some on em biled 
 water on the top, and some on em friz mercury ; but 
 they couldn t agree. So at last a lot on em fresh 
 from college camped out all night right on the top 
 of Gray s, and took observations, you bet ! every five 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 239 
 
 minutes ; and when they come down there wasn t no 
 manner of doubt in their minds but what Gray s was 
 the highest peak in the whole fandango. So Dick he 
 come down like a gentleman, and took the next best 
 himself. Well, Dick and me was out huntin , and 
 looking up blossom-quartz around yeiy and we raised 
 one of these yer white snow-quails, and I found the 
 nest with six eggs into it. So says I to Dick, You jest 
 hold on, an we ll have a reg lar Delmonico sockdolo- 
 ger. And we fried them there eggs, and eat em ; and 
 Dick said, Bust his crust, if he d ever had a break 
 fast set so comfortable-like as that one did. * All we 
 want, says Dick, is a drop of whisky to wash it down. 
 So we went down to Bakerville, and was a-settin round 
 in the bar-room as sociable as you please, spittin on 
 the stove, when Dick happened to mention them snow r - 
 quails eggs; and a long, slab-sided, scientific son of 
 a gun, with spectacles, riz up like a derrick, and says 
 he, l My friend, the Smithsonian Institution has of 
 fered a reward of one hundred dollars for a single 
 specimen of the snow-quail s egg. Most anybody 
 would V stopped to swear, and have a drink on that ; 
 but it never was nothin but an idee and a start with 
 Dick Irwin. When he thought of a thing, he was 
 goin to do it sure ; and this time he made just two 
 jumps out of doors, and moseyed up the mountain, 
 with his rifle. Afore we saw him agin, he had been 
 away down on the Grand, and all through the Snowy 
 and the Wasatch. Then we heerd on him in the 
 
240 CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 Middle Park; and one day he walked over the range, 
 and into the bar-room at Bakerville, as if nothin had 
 happened; and says he, Boys, that six-hundred-dol 
 lar breakfast has used up the last snow-quail s egg in 
 the whole dam Rockies. What 41 ye take? 
 
 Not so well told, Bill, as when first you reeled it off 
 to me under the shadow of McClellan. However, 
 this expurgated version, though not so good for your 
 reputation as a raconteur, is doubtless better for your 
 soul. 
 
 We have reclined on a sunny bit of grass, letting 
 our horses nibble their luncheon while we disposed 
 of our own, Bill s employment as a story-teller serv 
 ing to keep him down to a fair share of the sand 
 wiches and sardines. Now let us scale the final peak. 
 It looks but a -short distance, yet it is a good hour s 
 work. You need not walk, however : the horses are 
 used to it. 
 
 The peak seems to be formed of loose fragments 
 of rock, piled up in confusion How did they get 
 here? They didn t get here: they were here always. 
 This heap of stones is the effect of ages of frost and 
 snow and wind upon the once solid rock. At our 
 left, as we ascend, stands a solitary crag, which has 
 not yet quite yielded, nor toppled into ruins, but is 
 seamed and cracked through and through. 
 
 No extensive prospect from here. It is one of the 
 advantages of this route, that we mount gradually, 
 and without great trouble, yet do not have the final 
 
THE ASCENT OF GEAY S PEAK. 241 
 
 glory of the view from the summit wasted upon us 
 in driblets by the way. McClellan and Gray and 
 Irwin still rise solidly between us and the land of 
 promise, into which we shall presently gaze. There 
 are snow-drifts here and there, but not enough to 
 trouble us. The trail goes back and forward, wind 
 ing sharply among the rocks. We have not yet risen 
 above all life. There are tracks of light-footed ani 
 mals in the snow ; and yonder, as I live! there is one 
 more mine. Yes, the Atlantic and Pacific Lode sits 
 astride the backbone of the continent; and the en 
 thusiastic discoverer, sure of having found at last the 
 argentiferous heart of the continent, has put down 
 a shaft exactly on the divide. Pity that a location 
 so admirable for drainage and ventilation should have 
 to be abandoned " for lack of capital " ! We must wait 
 for the C. P. to come this way. 
 
 But, the last turn and the last snowdrift being 
 passed, we stand at last on the summit of Gray s Peak. 
 It is a place for deep breaths of delight and admira 
 tion, but not for words, at least not until, the first 
 ecstasy of silence being passed, the inevitable member 
 of the party who carries the opera-glass, and who 
 knows all the geography of the scene, begins to dis 
 pense his information. Never mind him. He is a 
 good fellow ; but he has been here before, and you 
 have not. Hear what he has to say, and then sit on a 
 rock beyond ear-shot, and look for yourself. 
 
 Southward, the crowding summits of the range, 
 
CAMP AND CABIN. 
 
 intersected by the deep canons of the Platte and its 
 tributaries, and, beyond all, Pike s Peak, superb in 
 the sun. 
 
 Westward, sweeping the circle from the south, the 
 South and Middle Parks, pieces of the plains, caught 
 and half-lifted by the mountains, in the midst of 
 which their broad, fair surfaces lie imbosomed ; the 
 dark, tiny caiions of the Blue and other streams, that 
 hasten to join the great south-western system of. 
 waters. One of them is full of clinging smoke ; the 
 woods are a-fire for miles. Far beyond the Parks is 
 the Snowy Range, and the lofty peak of Mount Lin 
 coln. Down in this labyrinth of glades, cliffs, and 
 gorges, emerald lakes and rushing streams, there are 
 human beings living and laboring, digging and slui 
 cing, blasting and crushing, scalping or being scalped 
 for the Arraphoes make a dash at the Utes or the 
 whites, now and then, in the Middle Park but we 
 reck nothing of it all. We might imagine ourselves 
 to be the first who were looking on the fair expanse, 
 but for this piece of " The New -York Herald," and 
 this old sardine-box, left by a former party, and the 
 minute cluster of dots in one of those far canons, 
 which closer inspection reveals to be the town of 
 Montezurna. 
 
 Northward, infinite variety of battlements, spires, 
 domes, and whatever other thing you choose to name, 
 by way of dwarfing the sublimity you cannot de 
 scribe; innumerable vistas -and half-revelations; Ir- 
 
THE ASCENT OF GRAY S PEAK. 243 
 
 win s Peak in the foreground, looming up on a level 
 with us, so near, apparently, that one might throw a 
 stone to its lone flagstaff and skeleton of a tent ; 
 Long s Peak closing the view in the distance, brown 
 and cloud-hung. 
 
 Eastward, another turn of the marvelous kaleido 
 scope, and a new combination of the endless beauties 
 of outline, tint, and shade ; and beyond all ending 
 and blending in the illimitable sky, the vast ocean of 
 the Plains. 
 
 Upward, the empty heavens, speaking unutterable 
 things ; and everywhere the thin, pure, sweet moun 
 tain-air, which one rather drinks than breathes, feel 
 ing the while that intoxicating combination of in 
 spiring stimulus and delicious languor which nothing 
 else bestows. 
 
 It takes a good while to go up to Gray s Peak ; but 
 mark how short a tale shall put you down. A climb 
 for descending the steep summit, leading the horses, 
 a brisk ride, with gallops interspersed, down the val 
 ley, through deepening twilight and at last, beneath 
 the glamour of a full white moon Georgetown 
 Denver, C. P. R. R. 
 
it 
 
 Ri LK 1. The Odd Fellows Library is de 
 voted exclusively to the uses of Odd Fellows 
 and their families and to no other persons. 
 
 KILK 2. On Tuesday, Thursday and Sat 
 urday nights of each week, it shall be the 
 duty of the Librarian to open the Library 
 rooins and be present at such hours as the 
 Library Committee may direct. 
 
 RTLK 3. The limit any book may be kept 
 from the Library room at any one time shall j 
 riot exceed two weeks. 
 
 RVLK 4. Any book not returned in as 
 good condition as when taken from the i 
 Library room, or when not rrturncfl as pro 
 vided by Rule 3. the cost for replacing such 
 book in proper condition shall charged to 
 the person taking the same. 
 
 RULE o. Parties taking books from the 
 ; Library room are positively prohibited from 
 ! loaning the same to any other person. 
 
 RriiK 6. Books of reference, plates, 
 charts, encyclopedias, dictionaries, atlases, 
 and periodicals, shall not be taken from the 
 Library room. 
 
 RULK 7. No smoking or loud taking al 
 lowed in the Library room. 
 
 RULK 8. The penalty for willful or re- 
 I peated violation of the above rules by any 
 person will be a denial to such person the 
 ! privileges of the Library room. 
 
 RULE 9. The observance of the foregoing 
 I rules will be strictly enforced.