Of all things perhaps this baby was the last they had looked for or thought of. In a camp of thousands, where the youngest baby there, save the boy poet, had a beard on his face, the men had forgotten to think of children. It is quite likely they fancied that children would not grow in the Sierras at all.
The Judge was the first to come forward as was his custom. He looked it in the face, began to make a speech, but only could say, "It's this glorious climate of Californy." And then he blushed to the tip of his nose, backed out, and others came in turn to see the wonderful little creature that had come all alone, farther than across the plains, farther than any of them, farther than the farthest of the States, even from the other world, to settle in the Sierras.
"Well ef that ain't the littlest!"
"Is that all the big they is?"
"Well! don't think Sandy hardly got his first planting, did he, Pike?"
"Well, that bangs me all hollow!"
"Dang my cats if it's bigger nor my thumb!"
"Devil of a little thing to make such a big row about, eh?"
Sandy was all submission and pride and tenderness, and received the congratulations and heard the good-humored speeches of the good-humored men as if they were all meant in compliment to him.
How radiant and even half beautiful was the plain face of poor Miss Bunker Hill as she lifted it up before the camp now, conscious that she had done a good thing and had a right to look the world in the face, and receive its kindness and encouragement.