The Dickinson press., 1883-08-18
RAIN Alta GOLD CLAiM.
Reflections Of an AroEonsunt OF Pho
neer California Times.

RAIN AT A GOLD CLAIM.
Reflections Of an AroEonsuit OF Pho.
nee California Times.
No work on the claim to-day Il rains
too hard. Itis the winter rain Of Cali
tornia-A warm, steady. continuous driz-
zle. The red earth is soft and soppy.
This is an enforced, day of rest. I have
finished my breakfast and sit down for
Il few minutes in a keeu enjoyment Of
idleness. There is q c~easeless pstter of
raindrops on the cabin roof. It is three
months when l think only of the date
of my arrival on FraEer's flat. It is 800
,-ears as 1 attempt to recall the daily
round of experience and thought since I
came here, I wonder how many years
more [ shall spend here. i wonder if 1
must live and die here. 1 am no nearer
fortune than three years ago, not so
near by three wears. t seem more and
more chained down here by
f. t2r f9r little Ct else b ha5b it dig. I must ses se.
out Of IL is: My gray flannel working
shirt needs intending. The right sleeve
is ripped from the wrist to the elbow.
1t has been so ripped for about six
weeks. I haye rolled that wet sleeve to
the elbow about q hundred times to-day,
anG at every tenth stmke Of the pick it
has unrolled' again and tapped in my
face, l sew up the sic we with a very
large needle and a very coarse thread
doubled. This is a goo | time to clean
up a little. / will be domestic to-day.
l will bake a fresh a Vi, of bread and
make a pie. III s!@ll be mince pie. It
shall be made Of suit beef previously
soaked! TO- freshness, dried spples, molas-
ses and vinegar in lieu Of cider. The
smooth, fiat board. | bake it on a shall
low tin plate. 1t will be when done a
thin, wafery pie; but it will be a pie
the shadow Of pie at lsast-such as |
used to eat at home; only O shadow. but
shadows we are and shadows we MIR.
sue.
! return to my cabin. The pie has
baked. tits browner than I intended it
should be-. On one side it is almost
black. 1t is ornamented about the rim
with Il row of scallops made by pressure
of the thumb. Now | put in the bread
previously mixed and kneaded. I am
not q good breadmakef. It is always
bread too much baked, OF too. little. or
too sour, OR too yellow, or too heavy.
But 1 don't care. / bake only for my
self and I nm unfortunately too easily
pleased and PROBABLY too lazy to take
that care and elaborate preparation ne
cessary for good bread. / never measure
accurately the proportions Of -four, wa
ter and Yeast necessary for good bread.
| throw them together at random. It's
a Init or miss" generally miss. Too
much trouble to bother about these
small details. A particular friend of
mine who staid with me a few days re-
proved me for the poor quality of my
breads n the general s%lovenliness APP
parent about my cooking utensils.
You have no PRIDE" said he.
II owned up. What was the use of
pride about q tin kettle.
Having eaten dinner, finishing with a
piece of my mince pie. it occurs to me
that this is a good time to write home.
It's hard work writing home. l put it
Oft for weeks and months. 1t lays a
6 load on my mind. I receive letters at
times complaining of my neglect. I
know | ought to write, but what is there
to write? Nothing but the same old
story, Hope soon to do we'll" / have
written in this strain for the last six
years, until l am tired and sick of it. It
is of no Use telling n more about the
country. All that has been told. IF nv
people only knew how much 1 suffered
IN this endeavor to be c%utiful, perhaps
they would not insist on my writing
more than the line, Isl am still alive;
yours truly"
The ink in my cabin is thick, the per
a bad one and my mind seems in this
epistolary effort thicker and rustier thar
ink or pen. "Dear -" and then =
big blot, and then a long pause and the
patter of the rain and the roar ofthe
river l wrote about a page and q hal
feeling as If every stroke ofthe pen were
encountered with a ball and chain.
accomplish half a dozen more blots and
I finish in a wretched state of mind and
in q prickly heat. 1t is q barren, pith.
less, sapless effort. l will go out and gel
a breath of fresh air and rain. 1t is 4
o'clock. Still t trains. The heavens are
dark and already the first shades of the
winters night are coming on. 1 revisit
my haul of lumber from the river. 1t is
gone. The river has not reached the
spot where ! placed it. 1t is the work O
those thieving Cinnamon on Chamber's
Bar, half a mile above. u II y What
a luxury would be this spot to thousands
in crowded cities who haven't even the
range Of q back yard nor the shadow of
a tree! Yet l am discontinued and
would get away to these crowded cities
my candle. The cande'abrais of glass
dark olive.green-a bottle. did use 8
big potato with a hole therein scooped.
But the esthetic nature requires con-
slant change and I adopted a bottle. ]
spread the evening repast. | sit down
alone. From the window l see the lights
glimmering in the few other neighbor.
ing cabins.
McSkimmins drops in after tea. I
know all that McSkimnins will say, fol
I have often heard it before: but Nc
Skimmins is better than nobody-or
rather better than ones own thoughts,
unrefreshed and unrelieved by mixture
with any other minds thought. Nc.
Skimmins goes. take refuge in the eff:
fort to repair my best and only pair Of
b!oadcloth pantaloons.. I brought these
with me from the states. They show
decided Signs of wear | am putting in
a patch. It is a job l take hold of at in
teryals. There is about tia mystery and
a complication l can't fathom. l can't
get the patch to fit or rather, to set,
There is more in the tailors- art than
imagined. Every time l have put them
on I find a difference and a seemin ne
division of action and sentiment between
the new cloth I have sewed inside and
the old cloth outside. They won't hold
together. The stitches rip apart and
everything goes by the run. 1 seem tc
fail in making the new cloth accommo-
date itself to the varying proportions OF
this part of the garment. And so the
dreary night wears on. Rain, rain;
roar. roar, o a Is this living?-Pren-
tlce Milford in San Francisco Chronicle