The Sierra citizen., 1854-10-28
For the Citizen.
Sketches from Sierra Valley.
BY ALICE.

Again l am seated to write, but not
under my favorite pine tree, for it is nearly
nightfall, and its shadow has heightened
on the velvet sward, and the hill-tops will
soon be gilded with the last rays of the
Autumn sun, which is sinking down be-
hind the hills. If there be such thing as
expressive silence, it is in our little valley
when night has hung her curtains round
the mountains brow, and only the dim out
line of the trees is seen in relief against
the sky, when the sentinel stars, that seem
to grow tired of watching over our set
tlement, hide themselves behind the white
clouds that heave up from the West, the
harbingers of Winter.
The autumn winds have begun to grieve
among the tree-tops, and to rustic through
the dry grass on the heath; the little birds
that used to wake me every morning have
fed; the willows along the branch are be-
ginning to shake off their yellow leaves,
and the shadow of death seems to have
fallen on the whole valley, save the ever
green trees which refuse to acknowledge
the dominion of death, until the storms of
n thousand years have beat upon them,
and the Indians fires have eat in their
heart.
am all alone, save little timorous
dog, that lies at luy feet as sentinel, every
now and then raising his shaggy head,
setting back one ear, and growing omi-
nously, as though he scented danger in the
wind. Poor fellow he seems to partake
Ofmy timidity, and to entertain certain
superstitious fears. though safely locked
In the cabin with myself. l suspect the
pompous little creature thinks if it were
not for his Argus-eyed vigilance and vo-
ciferous barking, | would be eaten up by
bears or carried off by the Indians.
am not about to write romance, a
love story, nor yet any of my own adven.
lures, but abaut the immortality and vice
which stalk shamelessly, unrebuked
through California. | have seen so many
Instances of the young and talented strug-
Cling gin the tolls that society has woven
about them, that they are indellibly
stamped on my memory, nor time, nor
circumstance can efface them. The pull
pitts empty, the press is silent, and the
CALLING chains of vice and intemperance
must drag their victims down to a living
death: no one has the courage to unlock
the fetters; the victim has not strength
himself to rend them asunder. We OBJ
serve his bloated face in the street, and
the next thing we hear is the tap of the
hammer on the coffin-lid-died of mania-a
potu; died from excessive use OF ardent
spirits, died from an unholy traffic in poi
son, died with the sardonic grin of des
pair on his countenance! Then some
friendly hand, hardened by honest toll
sends the sad intelligence to his mother
but he does not say how he died. Two
months after there is fearful gathering
under the old roof tree; the letter is read
line by line, and the grey-haired heart
stricken woman turns her face to heaven
hall in submission, half in complaint, tina
the destroying angel went forth SO soon
and half articulates, "would to God ha'
died for thee, my son, my son!'' Then tn
story of the young mans life is told; ant
the records of his life and death are il
Heaven.
Must California, the youngest and fan
est of the sisterhood of freedom, be repre-
sented as the Syren who would lure tn
innocent and unsuspecting to her COLDER