The Californian’s Tale

Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus,
tramping all day long with pick and pan and horn, and washing a hatful
of dirt here and there, always expecting to make a rich strike,
and never doing it. It was a lovely region, woodsy, balmy, delicious,
and had once been populous, long years before, but now the
people had vanished and the charming paradise was a solitude.
They went away when the surface diggings gave out. In one place,
where a busy little city with banks and newspapers and fire companies
and a mayor and aldermen had been, was nothing but a wide expanse
of emerald turf, with not even the faintest sign that human life
had ever been present there. This was down toward Tuttletown.
In the country neighborhood thereabouts, along the dusty roads,
one found at intervals the prettiest little cottage homes, snug and cozy,
and so cobwebbed with vines snowed thick with roses that the doors
and windows were wholly hidden from sight–sign that these were
deserted homes, forsaken years ago by defeated and disappointed
families who could neither sell them nor give them away. Now and then,
half an hour apart, one came across solitary log cabins of the earliest
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