I came from Salem city,
With my washbowl on my knee,
I’m going to California,
The gold dust for to see.
It rained all night the day I left,
The weather, it was dry,
The sun so hot I froze to death,
Oh! brothers, don’t you cry,
Oh! California,
That’s the land for me!
I’m going to Sacramento
With my washbowl on my knee.
Under the title of the “California Song” these verses soon became the common property of every ship sailing from Atlantic ports for San Francisco, and later they were heard in the mines almost as frequently as “Joe Bowers.” But, as hope diminished and homesickness increased, both ballads—so an old miner relates—gave place to “Home, Sweet Home,” “Ole Virginny,” and other sad ditties.
Pike County seems to have had a natural tendency to burst into poetry. In the story called Devil’s Ford, Bret Harte gives us two lines from a poem otherwise unknown to fame,—
“‘Oh, my name it is Johnny from Pike,
I’m hell on a spree or a strike.’”
In the story of The New Assistant at Pine Clearing School, three big boys from Pike County explained to the schoolmistress their ideas upon the subject of education, as follows: “‘We ain’t hankerin’ much for grammar and dictionary hogwash, and we don’t want no Boston parts o’ speech rung in on us the first thing in the mo’nin’. We reckon to do our sums and our figgerin’, and our sale and barter, and our interest tables and weights and measures when the time comes, and our geograffy when it’s on, and our readin’ and writin’ and the American Constitution in regular hours, and then we calkillate to git up and git afore the po’try and the Boston airs and graces come round.’”
The “Sacramento Transcript,” of June 11, 1850, tells a story about a minister from Pike County which has a similar ring. “A miner took sick and died at a bar that was turning out very rich washings. As he happened to be a favorite in the camp, it was determined to have a general turn-out at his burial. An old Pike County preacher was engaged to officiate, but he thought it proper to moisten his clay a little before his solemn duty. The parson being a favorite, and the grocery near by, he partook with one and another before the services began, until his underpinning became quite unsteady. Presently it was announced that the last sad rites were about to be concluded, and our clerical friend advanced rather unsteadily to perform the functions of his office. After an exordium worthy of his best days, the crowd knelt around the grave, but as he was praying with fervency one of the party discovered some of the shining metal in the dirt thrown from the grave, and up he jumped and started for his pan, followed by the crowd. The minister, opening his eyes in wonder and seeing the game, cried out for a share; his claim was recognized and reserved for him until he should get sober. In the mean time, another hole was dug for the dead man, that did not furnish a like temptation to disturb his grave, and he was hurriedly deposited without further ceremony.”
Bret Harte’s best and noblest character, Tennessee’s Partner, might have been from Pike County,—he was of that kind; and Morse, the hero of the story called In the Tules, certainly was:—
“The stranger stared curiously at him. After a pause he said with a half-pitying, half-humorous smile:—
“‘Pike—aren’t you?’
“Whether Morse did or did not know that this current California slang for a denizen of the bucolic West implied a certain contempt, he replied simply:—