over the divide coming out of the Russian River Valley. One night in August a party of San Franciscans went up the valley from Santa Rosa, bound on a hunting expedition into the mountains, and the gentlemen of the road, mistaking their ambulance for the regular stage, came quietly out into the road from the dusty chapparal on either side, like so many ghosts, in slouched hats and black crape veils, and presenting their shot-guns, ordered the party to stand and deliver. The party, never dreaming of such a misadventure, had their guns all stowed away in their cases in the bottom of the carriage, and were in no condition to resist. The beau and wit of the party arose, and with a deprecatory gesture commenced to address the veiled figures before him:
"Gentlemen, I regret to disappoint you and give you so much unnecessary trouble, but the fact is, you have made a trifling mistake. This isn't a stage. We are a party of peaceful citizens bound on a hunting and fishing expedition, and haven't got so much as a dollar in cash, a watch or a ring in the party. We don't carry 'em when we go on such a trip. It isn't safe. You know how it is yourselves!"
"Oh, cut it short! Save the rest for the next party. Git down there d—d quick!" was the emphatic remark of the leader of the gang. The beau and wit got down in despair, and held up his hands. Then a woe-begone visage was protruded from the side of the vehicle, and in solemn, sepulchral accents, a new address commenced as follows:
"Gentlemen, it is not often that I am called upon
