The Press., 1890-04-03
s.You have no pride" said he.

my packer. He had set me up on this claim, and put me, after fashion, on my feet. He had come to see. how was getting along. Whiie on this visit, a man of some standing from camp up the river came along looking for stray COW. My friend asked him to dinner--one of my dinners -graced by about the worst baking of bread ever accomplished. My friend did not realize what he was about when he asked the future lieuten- ant governor of the state of California to that dinner. But when he sat down to my board, and when they tried to eat my bread, he sorrowed in secret and gave. me some good and forcible advice after ward relative to culinary and domestic matters. In these matters he was very particular man. During his stay he in- augurated reign of neatness, and for me one of terror and discomfort. He. put his whole mind on cooking, and cov-' cred the stove with dishes. He was an animated bill of fare. He secured all the tinware brightly.
 But the man didn't enjoy eating his elaborately prepared meals so much as did,. He worked too hard getting them up. He exhausted too much of his force in planning, worrying and cooking. He worked his mind in too many channels at once. He lacked repose. There's where had the best of him. was re- posefuI, and if you please so to term it, lazy. He is dead--I am alive. There's the result of different mental conditions. It is noon. have no clock to tell the hours, but we acquire a faculty of feel ing when noon arrives. The rain has ceased temporarily, but it will soon. re- commence, for which am glad, as it will prevent work on the claim during the afternoon. Having eaten dinner, finishing with piece of mince pie, it occurs to me that this is good time to write home. It's hard work writing home. put it off for weeks and months. It lays load on my mind. l receive at times letters from people complaining of my neglect. l 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 fer the last six years, until am tired and sick of it. It is of no use telling any more about the country. All that has been told. If my people knew how much suffered in this endeavor to be dutiful, perhaps they would not insist on my writing more than the line, "I am still alive; yours truly" -.~..t
 The ink in my cabin is thick, the pen a bad one, and my mind seems in this epistolary effort thicker and rustier than ink or pen. "Dear -" and then big blot, and then long pause and the pat ter of the rain and the roar of the river. write about a page and half, feeling as if every stroke of the pen weye encun- bered with ball and chain. accom- plish half dozen more blots, and fin- ish in a wretched state of mind and in a prickly heat. It is barren, pithless, sapless effort. will go out and get a breath of fresh air and rain.,e It is o'clock. Still it rains. The heavens are dark, and already the first shades of the winters night are coming on. I revisit my haul of lumber from the river. It is gone. The river has not reached the spot where I placed it. It is the work of those thieving Chinamen on Chambers bar, half mile above. There is no use in going after them. My lumber is de- posted and hidden amid the piles they have today dragged out of the river. *
 spend about an hour getting in fuel. have wood yard on the hillside yonder. Nature has kindly felled and seasoned there few scrub oaks for my use. drag down few branches. The land here is free-very free. No fences, nc boundary lines, no gates, no proprietors. It's pretty flat when the sun shines. A dark background of mountain, in front river, with it's curving and varied out. line of tule and bank up and down stream, and close about the oaks are SC scattered as to give one the impression of 8 park and an old mansion hidden somewhere in the background. What 8 r luxury would be this spot to thousands in crowded cities who haven't even the range of back yard nor the shadow oi tree! Yet am discontented and would get away to these crowded cities. The early darkness has come. I light my candle. My candelabra is of glass-darl olive green-a bottle. did use big potato with a hole therein scooped. But the esthetic nature requires constant change and adopted bottle. spread the evening repast. sit down alone From the window see lights glimmer. ing in the few other neighboring cabins
 I take refuge in the effort to repair my best and only pair of broadcloth pantalocns. I brought these with me from the States. They show decided signs of wear. am putting in patch It is job take hold of at intervals There is about it a mystery and com plication can't fathom. can't get the patch to fit, or rather to set. There il more in the tailor's art than imagined Every tune put them on find differ. ence and seeming division of action and sentiment between the new cloth have sewed inside and the old cloth outside They won't hold together. The stitches rip apart, and everything goes by she !. run. seem to fail in making the new cloth accommodate itself to the varying proportions of this part of the garment And so the dreary night wears on. Rain rain, rain; roar. roar, roar. Is this living? PRENTICE MULFoRD.
 Don't take any chances with stubbor