The Press., 1890-03-27

G~. streams through the cabin window and through the chinks of the cabin wall.
 It is the same sunshine as that of the weekday. Yet as the miner wakes and realizes it is Sunday it has different appearance, and conveys different i'm pression from that of the weekday sun. Everything seems more quiet, more rest full, and even more staid and serious. There belongs to it and to the landscape as he looks out 8 flavor of far-away eastern Sabbath bells and Sunday morn ing's hush and longer family prayer than usual and Sunday school. But there is not church bell within ten miles, and there never will be one heard on this flat. There is not the least ap- proach to church society or religious organization or observance. There is not, so far as known, so much as man in the least religiously inclined. We are hard lot. No work on the claim to-day, The pick and shovel will rest where thrown Saturday afternoon, and only trickle of yellowish water from the reservoir will seep through the long line of sluices instead of Yesterdays muddy surge rushing through-sand, gravel, and grating pebble and powder.
 But there is work of another sort to be done and a great deal of it. After breakfast, shaving. That small mirror of most imperfect glass, whose refec- tion distorts the features, screwing up one side of the face and enlarging the other in an unnatural fashion, is suit ably adjusted. A smell of soap pervades the air. He fathers and slaves and re- fathers and reshaves with tedious and painful precision, the while making faces at himself in the glass as he brings one portion of his countenance after another more directly under the sweep of the razor. In some cases he comes off with few scratches or leaves a hirsute oasis here and there of uncut bristle. Black pantaloons, a white shirt, felt or straw hat, a linen duster and the Sunday boots. This is his dandy outfit. In his pocket is a buckskin purse, once yellow, now faded to a dull gray, holding gold dust, few ounces more or less, perhaps five, perhaps ten.
 It is the company dust and is to be sold and turned into bright, yellow gold pieces. And why all this preparation? ''To go to camp, Camp is three miles away over the mountain yonder. A group of ramshackle cabins, alternating with saloons, three grocery stores, a hotel, an express office and a justice of the peace, all in hot gulch, with hill sides long ago swept of trees, scared with cuts and streaked with patches of dry yellowish ledge. Camp to him has all the importance and interest of a great metropolis. It is the center of news. The stage passes through it on the way to larger camp. Two boss gamblers reside there. There is faro game on occasions, billiard table with a mountainous sort of bed, where the balls roll as they please and after an ec- centric fashion of their own.
 The camp is for him the first nerve center of civilization and the only outlet to the great world which he has left. You, fresh from the great city, regard this dilapidated place as an out of the way corner; but to him, living on his remote flat, with but two cabins in sight for as many miles, camp is a place of importance.
 He repairs first to the Magnolia He has long in imagination seen it from afar How cool is the big barroom The land lord keeps the floor well wet down. That Magnolia floor is one of the few places where water, unmixed with other fluid, is useful and grateful. How comforting and soothing is the first drink. A long drink in a long tumbler, with plenty of ice, soda water and whisky. If heaven be anywhere as material locality it is in that first cool drink after three mile July tramp over the kiln dried hills and herbage of the California foothills. The Magnolia is the social heart center of camp.
 There he finds the doctor The doctor drinks with him. The doctor drinks with everybody. There, too, is the justice of the peace. The justice drinks with him. The justice holds his court at the Mag nolia. The proprietor of the Magnolia is the camp constable, and between drinks during trial calls viva voce the witnesses ill the case. The judge drinks with him. The judge generally drinks. The prin- cipal camp gambler is at the Magnolia. lie takes light drink. He is wise man and knows the advantage and profit of keeping a cool head. The regular camp drunkard sits in the rear in one of the arm chairs back of the billiard table. He looks so humble, so respectful-and so dry, that our miners heart moves to pity and he tasks him up." He com- plies, but not with undue haste This treats of the era between 1865 and 1870. The camp drunkard had not then so Host his grip" as to be unmindful of a certain slowness, deliberation and dignity befit- ting a gentleman. But when he does ar rive at the bar he takes 'a.four-fingered" drink. s.gEs. s.,ss
 They stand in row at the bar. The barkeeper is mixing the Hong" and the short drinks. Each man waits, says nothing and eyes every motion of the bartender. The silence is impressive. All is ready. Each glass is grasped and