The Press., 1890-04-03

E v V&MNAl SGeaQy, COuCln-
 sE ~Sx uous drizzle.
 .l " The red earth is soft and soppy. It mires to the ankles. The dark green of the chaparral on the hill sides seems today almost black. The hue of the river by my cabin door is yell lower than ever. The water mark is three feet higher than last night, and it creeps upward every hour. Over the mountain crags yonder white sheets of foam are tumbling where none has been seen before for many months. This is an enforced day of rest. have finished my breakfast and sit down for a few min utes in a keen enjoyment of idleness. There is a ceaseless batter of raindrops on the cabin roof. The river roars loud CT than ever over the rifle close by. That roar is the first sound I hear in the morning and the last at night. It has roared thus for me these three years. In one sense of times duration they seem as three hundred years; in another, they seem not much over three months. It is three months when I think only of the date of my arrival on Frazier's flat. It is three hundred years as I attempt to recall the daily round of experience and thought since came here. Outwardly it has been what many would consider. a monotonous experience. Weeks have been so much alike that they leave no distinguishing marks in my memory.
 wonder how many years more shall spend here. wonder if must live and die here. am no nearer fortune than three years ago, not so near by three years. I seem more and more chained down here by force of habit: seem fit for little else but to dig. I long to see something of the great world beyond this lone foothill nook. Yet without money feel less and less capable of go- ing out and "getting on'' in that world. And as for saving honeywell, we call this ''three dollar claim," which means an average daily profit, when all ex- penses are paid, of two dollars, more or less These thoughts are making it as gloomy within as the weather is with out. I must get out of this. My gray flannel working shirt needs mending. The right sleeve is ripped from wrist to elbow. It has been so ripped for about six weeks. have rolled that wet sleeve up to the elbow about hundred times day, and at every tenth stroke of the pick it has unrolled again and Tapped in my face. I sew up the sleeve with a very large needle and very coarse thread doubled. This is good time to clean up little. will be domestic to- day. will bake a fresh batch of bread and make pie. It shall be mince pie. We areten miles from the nearest bakers mince pie. It shall be made of salt beef previously soaked to freshness, dried ap- ples, molasses, and vinegar in lieu of cider. The crust roll out with a junk bottle on a smooth, flat board. bake it on a shallow tin plate. It will be, when done, thin, wafery pie; but it will be a pie-the shadow of a pie at least-such as used to eat at home; only shadow
 Rain, rain, rain. The wind is up and about too, tearing around among the trees and shaking the cloth roof of my cabin. Here and there little trickles of water are coming through and running down the logs. Mine is a log cabin of the toughest make. Four logs piled atop of each other form the sides. A mud chimney at one end; door at the other. The logs are very dry and very rotten, and abound in those insects that delight in rotten wood. I have found scorpions under the bark and occasion ally an earwig promenades over the table. open the door and look out on the river. It is rising. Wrecks are com ing down-boards, logs, lumber and an occasional. sluice and pieces of fuming. There is an eddy around the turn of the hill above, where much of this drift runs in. 1 repair thither sand make few hauls. secure half dozen good boards, some pieces of joist, some driftwood for fuel, and pile it up on the bank out of the swelling waters reach. 'sHalloa!' That cry is from a couple of men on the other side of the river, plodding down the trail in oilskins know them. Two of the ''boys" from Poverty bar. They are going to Prices store, two miles be- low-store, grogshop, boarding house, polling booth at election, ferry, etc. Being a rainy day they are going there. to get drunk. That. is not their avowed pur- pose on setting out, but it's as near cer- tainty as anything can be in this world.
 I return to my cabin. The pie has DdhCus At IS OIOWAcI Illcsl1 J udO ed it should be. On one side it is almost black. It is ornamented about. the rim with row of scollops made by pressure of the thumb. Now put in the bread. previously mixed and kneaded. I am not a. good breadmaker. It is always bread too much baked. or too little, or, too sour or too yellow, or too heavy. But Isdon't care. I bake only for my self and Ianl unfortunately too easily pleased, and probably too lazy to take that care and elaborate preparation nec- essary for good bread. Il never measure accurately the proportions of flour, water. and yeast powder necessary for good bread. throw them together at random. It's a Unit or miss generally miss. It's too much trouble to bother about these. small details. A particular friend of mine who stayed with me a. few days reproved me for the poor qual-