The boy grew up as all energetic boys do; for there seems to be a sort of special providence for such boys.
And where is he now?
Out in California, trapping bear in the winter and planting olive trees in their season.
And do I know him?
Yes, pretty well, almost as well as any old fellow can know himself.
[VI.]
A FAT LITTLE EDITOR AND THREE LITTLE “BROWNS.”
Mount Sinai, Heart of the Sierras—this place is one mile east and a little less than one mile perpendicular from the hot, dusty and dismal little railroad town down on the rocky banks of the foaming and tumbling Sacramento River. Some of the old miners are down there still—still working on the desolate old rocky bars with rockers. They have been there, some of them, for more than thirty years. A few of them have little orchards, or vineyards, on the steep, overhanging hills, but there is no home life, no white women to speak of, as yet. The battered and gray old miners are poor, lonely and discouraged, but they are honest, stout-hearted still, and of a much higher type than those that hang about the towns. It is hot down on the river—too hot, almost, to tell the truth. Even here under Mount Shasta, in her sheets of eternal snow, the mercury is at par.