The Argonauts of California: being the reminiscenses of scenes and incidents that occurred in California in the early mining days

by Charles Warren Haskins

“Oh,” says another. “That noise was miles away. I ain’t afraid, so let’s try it again.”

After discharging a few shots at imaginary beasts, as a fair warning to others away in the forest that were not imaginary, we again entered the dark trail and proceeded cautiously onward. The monkeys among the branches over our heads would follow us, and occasionally approach near enough to endeavor to snatch our hats from our heads. We had proceeded in this manner for about a mile, when a Cape Cod chap, who was in the van, suddenly came to a stop, at the same time exclaiming in a very emphatic manner, “Go back! go back, quick!” We all pressed forward, however, anxious to see the cause of the alarm, and we saw it. A few straggling rays of the sun had forced their way through the thick foliage above, and illuminated a small patch of the trail of about two feet in extent, and lying in this sunny spot could be discerned the head of an enormous serpent. The body was there too, of course, but being among the bushes it was not visible. We cared nothing for the body, but it was the ferocious looking head that startled us. Its eyes assumed all the colors of the rainbow. Four pairs of very severe eyes were concentrated upon the eyes of the monster, which seemed to realize the situation, and from a feeling of bashfulness at being gazed upon by strangers, or, perhaps, having caught sight of our weapons, and recognized the brand, from an instinct of coming danger closed its eyes. With optics partially closed, its countenance assumed a very amiable expression; but a slight movement from one of us caused it to again raise its eyes, and made one, at least, of us wish that he hadn’t come.

“Oh pshaw!” remarked a Boston chap, who had attended high school some, “let’s go ahead anyhow. You remember that Plato, or some other fellow, said that courage was one of the virtues, or something of the kind. Now let us prove that we are virtuous young men. We will turn his right flank, and get to his rear easy enough.”

“Oh, git out,” said the Cape Cod chap; “them form of animals hain’t got any right nor left flank at all; nor rear end neither, ’cause their bodies come to a point on the fur end.” Just at this moment, the monster made a forward movement and we retired in a rather hasty manner, leaving the serpent to enjoy its sun bath.

But the reader would ask, since we were so well provided with weapons, why in the name of Cæsar didn’t we massacre the brute at once, and go on. It must have been from fear that we did not, and so it was. We were fearful of shooting each other, for we had practiced so little with our weapons that it had not as yet been positively decided whether or not we should aim right at an animal that we desired to massacre, or in the opposite direction. One of the young men who had practiced considerably during the voyage shooting at the big waves, and was always positive that he hit them, somewhere, volunteered to test his skill upon the serpent, but for fear that the noise might make it angry and cause it to bite some of us, he was prevented.

As we emerged from the forest, our ears were assailed with a most unearthly screeching, that seemed to come from the open country beyond the forest. We concluded, at once, that some ferocious monster had by accident got out of the woods, and was unable to find its way back again. We examined our weapons, determined to sell our lives at the highest price, spot cash, and marched manfully in the direction of our vessel.

The Cape Cod lad remarked, as we hurried onward, that the screeching reminded him of a political caucus in his native town, and “the cheerman was a-tryin’ to call ther meetin’ to order.” Upon reaching a slight elevation, we saw, in the road ahead of us, a cart drawn by a pair of oxen, and it was from this that the noise proceeded. We concluded, at once, that the cart contained wild animals that were perhaps being shipped to New York for Mr. Barnum; but upon nearer approach we found, to our astonishment and disgust, that the terrible Brazilian melody was caused by the wheels upon the axles, which in this country are never greased.

We suggested to the driver, by certain signs, that they ought to be greased, and that it was an evidence of barbarism, and would not be tolerated in any civilized country. “Oh no,” he replied, “Americanos no sabe. Wheels no sing: bullocks no go.”