Of ye horse: “He smelleth ye battle afar off and saith, ‘ha, ha!’” Now, not any horse can further smell out a thing presumed to be hidden—sugar, bacon, and ye lyke—than ye Washoe canary—then, indeed, hys “yee-haw” far surpasseth the “ha, ha!” of a horse-laugh. What are ye wings of ye peacock or ye feathers of ye ostriche to ye fierceness of hys foretop and ye widespread awfulness of hys ears?
Of ye horse: “He swalloweth ye ground in fierceness and rage.” Now, ye Washoe canary swalloweth woolen shirts, old breeches, gunny sacks and dilapidated hoop-skirts when in a state of pensive good nature—what, then, must we suppose hym capable of swallowing, once hys wrath is enkindled and all ye fearful ferocity of hys nature is aroused; Such is ye Washoe canary. Be in haste at no time to proclaim a victory over him.
CHAPTER XIV.
MIGRATION ON A LARGE SCALE.
On the Pacific Coast there is felt every spring a kind of unrest—men of all classes feel as if they should go somewhere. This feeling is particularly strong among miners, and they look about to see if some region cannot be thought of into which they may make a prospecting raid. Others feel like going up into the mountains, or some wild and far-away region, on general principles—just to be rambling and seeing something new and picturesque. To desire to be on the move when spring opens appears to be natural to all mankind—to be a sort of animal instinct implanted in the human race, and an instinct probably never wholly eradicated by the influences of even the most refined civilization.
With the opening of spring, our Indians and all savage tribes of people are on the move. Even among wild animals the same migratory instinct is to be observed. Bear, deer, elk, and other animals that have wintered in the valleys, move up into the mountains, when the snow has disappeared under the warmth of the returning sun. The spring unrest is doubtless now much less strong within us, than at that remote period when we sported tails, yet we still retain in some degree this instinct of our former savage state; it is still in us, and at each return of the season for breaking up camp and moving out of winter quarters it takes possession of us. In the older settled communities, the people may not think of wandering to any great distance, but even there the farmer feels best when he is rambling in his farthest fields, and his wife prefers working in her garden and roving in the open air, to remaining in her house.
No doubt in the dim and distant ages of the past—when we still retained our caudal appendages—spring was a stirring season with the race. There was then a general awakening of the tribes. Knowing nothing, at that time, of the means by which we might provide artificial warmth, when the rigors of winter began to be felt we all left the mountains. Descending into the deepest and most sheltered valleys, we there hibernated, as best we might, in the mouths of caves and in sunny nooks among the hills, till the spring sun again warmed us into life. When it was judged time to be on the move toward the mountains, the sagacious elders probably took up their position on some prominent ledge of rock above the sheltering ravine in which the winter had been passed, and addressed the assembled tribe. What a glad chorus of yelps applauded the sage chatterings of the orators, and what a wildly exultant waving of tails was there when it was known all were to migrate “to fresh woods and pastures new!”
The discovery of the silver mines in Nevada gave all an excellent opportunity of gratifying their migratory instincts, and miners and men of all classes and all trades and professions flocked over the Sierras, in the spring of 1860.
At first they came on foot, driving donkeys or other pack-animals before them, or on horseback, riding where they could and leading their horses where the snow was soft, but soon sleighs and stages were started, and in some shape floundered through with their passengers. Saddle trains for passengers were started, however, before vehicles of any kind began to run, and the snow passed over was in many places from thirty to sixty feet in depth.
At first there was not sufficient shelter for the newcomers, and they crowded to overflowing every building of whatever kind, in all the towns along the Comstock range. But houses were rapidly being built in all directions, and the weather soon became warm enough to allow of camping out in comfort almost anywhere; men who had rolled up in their blankets and slept on the snow, high up on the frosty Sierras, did not much mind sleeping in the open air on the lower hills.