The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1872-04-01
THE PRESS.
A New Rip Van Wrinkle.


From the Denver Colorado News'J
Down ON the flats, yesterday, we met JAKE
cu6uan in his original dress OF '59. The
buckskin patches were greasier, giossler anu
hacker. His wolt-skin cap showed patches
and snots above the snow-line that looked as
though the mango had struck it, and the tail
of the animal that dangled about his right ear
was draggled, as though trailed in the snow
and slush of dozen winters. Jake's wooden
shirt was in tatters and strings, and it was
plain that to perpetuate its usefulness he had
never entrusted it to the tender mercies OF
Biddy or Sing Lee. Jake c,.me herding HIM
self up III street from the river bank, mean
dering easily and gracefully from side.to side,
and occupying the full width of the canon"
as he called it. Hanging listlessly under his
right arm was an old style Springfield mus
ket, with the muzzle to the front. Visions of
Carl Wood, Jim Harvey, and others of that
ilk, foated through our mind as he rose the
HILL but they vanished as we recognized good
hearted, simple-minded Jake. He essayed to
stop as we met, but could not steady himself
until he had thrown out his gun as brace.
Leaning upon its muzzle, he asked:
81 say, cap'n, is this 'Rary?" (Auraria)
'sNo, you are in Denver
"Jes so; Gen'l Lar'me town."
eyes," we replied.
''Well, where's Denver hall %
st stood up at the head of the next street,
but it was burned down, nine years ago."
He unused for a few moments, and then
said rather to himself 1.Many's the lively
times we had there, when the pistol-balls
whizzed through the canvas Partitions" and
the thought seemed to sober Jake on the in
slant. Says he, ''Where is Jack Hender-
son?'
"Gone to San Domingo"
GIL but that's just like Jack. He left
us fellows up there to Deadwood and come
down to git some grub. told the boys that
Jack had likely forgot us, and I'd come down
to 'Rary and see about it. So l struck out
across the hills, and waded Clear creek over
by Jim Bakers, and the Platte right down
there, and here 1 am. But l say, who built
all these housen ?"
We named dozen or so bloated lot-owners
of to-day, but Jake looked more and more in
credulous and shook his head Saws he, 81
don't know none of them fellers. Where's
Bill Clancy and Gen Bowen and Judge Smith
and Jack Jones and Squire Heat and Wag-
oner and Mcclure and all the old boys ?''
Patiently we answered his inquiries, until
he could think of no more Gathering his
musket again under his arm, he started off
with the declaration that he was ''a-goin'
right over to Uncle Dick Wootons for a
square drink of walipete." As he swung
around the corner, up at Pierce's block. we
observed that the holes in his mocassins were
larger than when he started out with Jack
Henderson and Jim Goodwin for Deadwood
diggings, in April, 1859, and we sorrowed at
the grief that would overcome him when he
failed to find Uncle Dick under the old cotton
wood over at the corner of Ferry and Fourth.
Jake's sleep has been long and unbroken.
He knows not that there has been war; that
we can talk with Europe, or that iron rails
span the continent. He mistook the Rio
Grande track for an arrangement to stretch
antelope skins, and the other to aid in tan
ming buffalo hides. Fancy the surprises that
await him as he traverses the streets of Den
yer and learns the events of the last dozen
years.