A Water Bucket On One Side Of The Animal Was So
Adjusted That The Bottom Was Uppermost; On The Top Of The Bucket Sat A
Little Fox-Terrier, His Eyes Fixed Steadfastly On His Master.
I paused a
moment, possessed with a strong desire to take a snap shot of this
remarkable equipment, but the man with the gun gave me a glance that
settled the matter.
His was not a bad face - far from it - but the
features were stern and set, the cheeks furrowed with deep lines that
bespoke hardship and fatigue in the struggle with Nature and the
elements. That glance out of the tail of his eye meant: "Let me alone
and I will let you alone, but let me alone!"
Taciturnity becomes habitual to men accustomed to vast solitudes. Even
on such a tramp as I had undertaken, in which I frequently walked for
miles without sight or sound of a human being, I began to realize how
banal and aimless is conventional conversation. Under such conditions
you feel yourself in sympathy with the man who says nothing unless he
has something to say, and who, in turn, expects the same restriction of
speech from you.
I was seated on the porch of the store at Applegate, disposing of a
frugal lunch consisting of raisins and crackers, when my friend hove in
sight. After a private inspection of the store's possibilities, with a
little smile, the meaning of which I well understood from many similar
experiences, he sat down beside me and without a word tackled the
somewhat uninviting repast, to which with a wave of the hand I invited
him. I may say here that Mr. Smith is a veteran and inveterate "hiker."
I doubt very much whether any man in California has seen as much of this
magnificent State as he, certainly not on foot; as a consequence he is
accustomed to a ready acceptance of things as they are. Applegate, about
midway between Auburn and Colfax, is an alleged "summer resort." It did
not appeal to us as especially attractive, the view, at any rate from
the road, being extremely limited and lacking any distinctive features.
Without unnecessary delay, therefore, we resumed the march.
It is practically up-hill - "on the collar" - all the way to Colfax, as
is plainly evidenced by the heavy railroad grade. About a mile short of
the town, we made a digression to an Italian vineyard of note. There, at
a long table under a vine-covered trellis that connected the stone
cellar with the dwelling-house, we were served with wine by a young
woman having the true Madonna features of Sunny Italy, her mother, a
comely matron, in the meantime preparing the evening meal, while on the
hard ground encumbered with no superfluous clothing, disported the
younger members of the family. And as I sat and smoked the pipe of
peace, I reflected upon how much better they do these things in Italy -
for to all intents and Purposes, I was in Italy.
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