ally thrown over all removed, pioneers began to look
back upon it as a dream.
Time rolls on, and between the river banks and wooded hills smile little garden spots, enclosing neat white cottages, to which distance lends the flavor of the old-time home, where wives so long and anx- iously waited the return of their rough darlings. And here they are still, far from the land of their birth, youth's hopes perished, hastening to untimely graves^ Hatefully shines the new-minted metal, the price of conscience, of love, the reward of life's failure 1
Slumber now is wooed not by the soft low tones of wife and children; the care-heated brain is soothed not by the magic touch of fairy fingers, nor is the roused heart calmed by the uplifting and out-going influences of family prayer and praise. Mingled with the coyote's howl comes the sound of revelry from the adjacent camp, while the panting river and the sigh- ing wood sing their lonely lullaby.
And to the man of merchandise in the busy city's marts arise visions of home, of the native village, of friends beloved, of childhood scenes ; rocks, hills, and wood; meadow, orchard, and the clear running stream; garden and barn; pets and playmates, — these, and a thousand like things, haunt them in their leisure hours, intrude themselves during the hot perplexities of busi- ness, and mingle with their midnight dreams. Time was when there were hours, blessed hours, uncursed by any burning desire.
Carelessly standing in one corner of Sinclair's house, in the autumn of 1848, half covered by the old lumber which had been thrown upon it, was a fanega measure full of gold, all but half an inch. Now a fanega holds a bushel and a half. One day came along Patrick McChristian, happy in charitable peace with the world, being himself in those days a prince among the diggers, for his pockets were always stuffed with, his several thousands.
