A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country

of Sonora and Fascination of

Sonora seems to lie basking in the sun, buried in a wealth of greenery, through which gleam white walls and roofs of houses. Even its winding streets are so shaded by graceful old trees that buildings are half hidden. The bustle and excitement of the mining days a

mind. Of him he spoke in terms of real affection. "Prentice Mulford," he said, "was a brilliant, very handsome and most lovable young man." I asked him how these young men were regarded by the miners. He said: "In all the camps they were held to be in a class by themselves, on account of their education and literary ability. Although they wore the rough costume of the miners, it was realized that none of them took mining seriously or made any pretense of real work with pick and shovel." Mr. Neal knew James Gillis intimately and ad

rming the eastern sky-line. One of the chief charms of an excursion through these foothill counties is the certainty that directly you reach any considerable elevation there will be revealed a magnifi

dence to the casual observer. It is, however, one of the biggest timber camps in the State. In the yards of the West Side Lumber Company, covering several hundred acres, are stacked something like 30,000,000 feet of sugar p

Altogether, I was disappointed with Tuolumne, having expected to find a second Angel's, owing to its prominence in Bret Harte's stories. A lumber camp, while an excellent thing in its way, is neither picturesque nor inspiring. I spent the night at the "T

n, is a study for an artist. And as I gazed in a sort of day-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in the Sierras-with four faro tables running day and night-the pines seemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories. Jackass Hill is fairly honeycombed

and there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "Carson Flat." "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "How much?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles." This in a tone that implied that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However, with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail

side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairs tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel. And there I dozed, watching the passing show betw

ould not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to be content with reaching

t there must be, for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its own; but there seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish whatever the necessities of life demand. And I may state here parenthetically, that perhaps the most impressive feature o

udge Gottschalk, who died a few years ago at an advanced age, was authority for the statement that Mark Twain got his "Jumping Frog" story from the then proprietor of the Metropolitan Hotel, San Andreas, who asserted that the inc

sedately down the middle of the street. No one was driving her, no one paid her any attention beyond a casual glance, as she passed. The cow, in fact, had simply come home, after a day in the open country; and it became plain to me that this was a nightly occurrence and therefore cau

e of the changes wrought by time, since the days when in song and story Bret Harte ma

apex and is at the head of Chili Gulch, a once famous bonanza for the placer miners. For miles the road winds up the gulch, which is almost devoid of timber, amid piled-up rocks and debris, bleached and blistered by the sun's fierce rays; the gulch itself being literally stripped to "bedrock."

ed of the gulch. He showed me the result, a few "colors" and sulphurets. He said it would "go about five dollars to the ton," and seemed well satisfied with the result. I shall always hold him in grateful memory, for he took me to an old t

ntain, and commands a view of rare beauty. At its base winds the wooded canon of the Mokelumne River, on the farther side of which rises the Jac

d such an out-of-the-way and inaccessible locality, I was served with one of the best meals on the whole journey, including claret with crushed ice in a champagne glass! What that meant to a tramp who had struggled for miles through quartz rock and impalpable dust, up a heavy grade, without shade and th

me form of beauty. Jackson, the county seat of Amador County, is but six miles from Mokelumne Hill and a town of considerable importance, being the terminus of a branch line of the Southern Pacific Railway. It is situated

utskirts. This town, too, has a flourishing look, accounted for by the operation of the South Eureka and Central Eureka mines. A gentleman whom I met on the street imparted this information, and asked me if I remembered Mark Twain's definition of a gold m

One becomes acutely sensitive to the "atmosphere" of these places, after a few days upon the road, for each has a distinctive individuality in spite of the fact that it was mid-day in midsummer, gloom see

re was a certain risk attendant on walking in such heat, determined to make the best of what was anything but a pleasant situation, and go no farther. Drytown,

he village was laid out with some regularity and had taverns, stores, butchers' shops and monte tables." One cannot but smile at the idea of "monte tables" in connection with the Drytown of t

a well furnishing cold, pure water. I found this to be the most acceptable feature of several of the old hostelries. The well and the swinging sign over the

ap, appeared to be a place of some importance, but a closer inspection proved that-in spite of its breezy name-it would take the spirits of a Mark Tapley to withstand its discou

milies in this once flourishing camp. Strange as it may seem, money appears to be no object to people in these

lly crossing a divide at an elevation of two thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers the little town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractive designation "Mud Springs." This title, though lacking in euphony, w

a personage than Horace Greeley. It was here he terminated his celebrated stage ride with Hank Monk. I found that my friend Harold Edward