An Old-time California Burglar.
By Joaquin Miller.
In the fall of 1849, Mr. Andrew Jackson Larison sailed out of Boston harbor for the gold-mines of California.
The first day out the handle of his name was knocked off, for this bright and handsome boy was working his way on a sailing ship around Cape Horn, and sea captains of those days had no time to waste on long names. He was only Larison after he left land and his visiting-card behind him.
On landing in San Francisco, Mr. Andrew Jackson Larison of Boston, Massachusetts, was taken down with the smallpox, The poor fellow left the hospital without a dollar or a friend, and with hardly a spare garment. Still he was stout of heart, a brave and determined boy, as were ten thousand others of those
The Captain. times who were trying to make a little fortune for the dear ones at
home, and he did not falter.
The day after leaving the hospital, with his pale, thin face all in dots and spots, he engaged to work his passage up the Sacramento River to the mines.
“What is your name?” demanded the gruff captain with a green patch on his right eye and a silver-mounted six-shooter in his belt.
“Andrew Jackson Larison, sir,” said the pale young man with the spots and dots on his face.
“Hey? Well, Mr. Andrew Jackson Lazarus,” roared the captain, “take that coal-shovel and report to the mate, and be quick it, too.”
And so Lazarus became his name,—Lazarus, and Lazarus only, for soon the other parts of his name were again rubbed off.
When young Larison reached the gold-mines he found there had been a great stampede for mines said to be of fabulous richness farther on over the mountains. All along the banks of the little gold-bearing river he saw deserted cabins, the latch-string hanging out ready for any who chose to enter and, take possession.
A good custom was this in the old days. Let a party of gold-hunters, game-hunters, or even hunters after health, go into the mountains and build a cabin for the season, care was always taken to leave it neat and clean and ready for the first poor wayfarer who might pass.that way.
Larison pushed as far on up the stream as his legs would take him the first day. Near the lead of the placer-mines he found a cabin with the rickety door wide open. He entered and took possession.
A fine stream of water rippled and ran through the mossy boulders under the great, sweeping pine and fir and yew trees. The place was so still that the young man could hear his heart beat as he stood on the earthen floor before the huge fireplace and looked about. In one corner was a battered old rocker, a shovel, pick, and a few other tools. In the southwest corner arose a tier of “bunks,” not unlike the berths of a ship in arrangement. In each bunk was spread a thick layer of fir and pine boughs, which gave out a pleasant odor. But on the topmost bunk, best of all, the thoughtful miners, on going away, had thrown their rough, outer clothing as well as some empty flour-sacks, gunny-bags, and so on.
Larison hastily climbed up to this topmost bunk, by setting his feet on the two lower bunks as if mounting a ladder, and the poor fellow soon had a fairly comfortable bed arranged on top of the fragrant boughs. Then he descended, struck a match, and from the pine quills and pine knots to be had at the