Arizona republican., 1891-07-31


 They have long since gone They are
 scattered for the most part you know
 not where. Two are living in San
 Francisco and are now men of might
 and mark. Another you have heard of
 far away in the eastern states, living in
 remote village whose name is never
 heard of outside the county bounds.
 One has been reported to you as "up
 north somewhere;" another down in
 Arizona somewhere" and three you can locate in the county. That is but seven out of the one hundred who once dwelt here and roundabout Now that recollection concentrates herself you do call to mind two others-one died in the county almshouse and another became insane and was sent to Stockton. That is all. Nine out of the one hundred that once resided at Dry Bar. It is mournful. The river monotonously drones, gurgles and murmurs over the rifle. The sound is the same as in '5S.
 A bird on the opposite bank gives forth at regular intervals loud queru- lOus cry. It was bird of the same 1 species whose note so wore on the nerves of Mike Mcdonald as he lay dying of 1 consumption in a big house which stood | wonder, that, after anathematizing it., he would beseech his watcher to take a gun and blow the "cussed" things head off. Perhaps it is the same bird. The afternoon shadows are creeping down the mountain side. The outline of the hills opposite has not at all changed, and there, down by the bank, is the enor- nous fragment of broken rock against which Dick Childs built his brush shel- ter for the summer and out of which he was chased by a sudden fall rise of the river. But it is very lonesome with all these people here so vivid in memory. yet all gone, and never, never to come back.
 Here it is. The remains of your own cabin chimney pile of smoke black ened stones in the tall grass. Of the cabin every vestige has disappeared. You built that chimney yourself. It was an awkward affair, bnt it served to carry out the smoke, and when finished you surveyed it with pleasure and some pride, for it was your chimney. Have you ever felt "snugger" and more coZy and comfortable since than you did on the long, rainy winter nights, when, the supper finished and the crOckery washed, you and your 'pard" sat by the glow ing coals and prepared your pipes for the evening smoke: There We're great hopes and some great strikes on Dry Bar in those days; that was in '52. Mining was still in the pan, rocker and long tom era; sluiCes were just coming in. Hydraulicdng 100 foot banks and washing hills off the face of the earth had not been thought of. The dispute as to the respective merits of the long vs. the short handled shovel was still badge of honor. The deep river beds were held to contain enormous store of golden nuggets. River mining was in its wing and coffer dam phase.
 Perhaps the world then seemed young CT to you than now: Perhaps your mind then set little store on this picturesque spot, so wrapped were you in visions of the future: Perhaps then you wrote regularly to that girl in the States-your first hearts trOuble-and your anticipa- tion was fixed entirely on the home to be built up there on the gold you were to dig here: Perhaps the girl never mar ried you, the home was never built and nothing approaching the amount of orc expected dug out You held, then, Dry Bar in light estimation. It was for you only temporary stopping place, from which you wished to get its gold as quickly as you could and get away from as soon as possible.
 You never expected Dry Bar, it's mem- Ories and associations thus to make for themselves q local habitation and a name in your mind. We live sometimes m homes we do not realize until much of their material part has passed away. A horned toad scuttles along the dry grass and inflates himself to terrify you as you approach. Those ratlike ground squirrels are running from hole to hole, like goSsiping neighbors, and "chip- ping" shrilly at each other. These are old summer acquaintances at Dry Bar.
 Is it with a feeling of curiosity you take up one of those stones handled by you tmrty-One years ago, and wonder how like or unlike you may be to your self at that time: Are you the same man? Not the same young man cer- tainly, The face is worn, the eyes deep- CT set, the hair more or less gray, and there are lines and wrinkles where none existed then, but that is only the out side of your "soul case" Suppose that you, the John Doe of 1883, could and should meet the John Doe of 1853? Would you know him? Would you agree on all points with him? Could you "get" along with him? Could you cabin" with him? Could you summer and winter" with him?
 Would the friends of the John Doe of '53, who piled up that chimney, be the friends of the present John Doe, who stands regarding it's ruins? Are the be- liefs and convictions of that J. Doe those of this J. Doe? Are the jokes deemed 80 clever by that J. Doe clever to this J. Doe? Are the men great to that J. Doc great to the present J. Doe? Does he now see the filmly, frothy fragments of scores of pricked bubbles sailing away and vanishing in air? If man die shall he live again? But how much of a mans mind may die out and be supplanted by other ideas ere his body goes back to dust? How much of this J. Doe belongs to that J. Doe, and how much of the same man is there standing here?
 PRENTICE MULFoRp.
 The Navy Yard.
 WASuINGTnN Inly 2n-Thn Marry