The only peculiarity about the miners was the white mud with which they were bespattered, especially those working in underground diggings, who were easily distinguished by the quantity of dry white mud on the tops of their hats.

The supper at the Hotel de Paris was the best-got-up thing of the kind I had sat down to for some months. We began with soup—rather flimsy stuff, but pretty good—then bouilli, followed by filet-de-bœuf, with cabbage, carrots, turnips, and onions; after that came what the landlord called a “god-dam rosbif,” with green peas, and the whole wound up with a salad of raw cabbage, a cup of good coffee, and cognac. I did impartial justice to every department, and rose from the table powerfully refreshed.

The company were nearly all French miners, among whom was a young Frenchman whom I had known in San Francisco, and whom I hardly recognized in his miner’s costume.

We passed the evening together in some of the gambling-rooms, where we heard pretty good music; and as there were no sleeping quarters to be had at the house where I dined, I went to an American hotel close to it. It was in the usual style of a boarding-house in the mines, but it was a three-decker. All round the large sleeping apartment were three tiers of canvas shelves, partitioned into spaces six feet long, on one of which I laid myself out, choosing the top tier in case of accidents.

Next door was a large thin wooden building, in which a theatrical company were performing. They were playing Richard, and I could hear every word as distinctly as if I had been in the stage-box. I could even fancy I saw King Dick rolling his eyes about like a man in a fit, when he shouted for “A horse! a horse!” The fight between Richard and Richmond was a very tame affair; they hit hard while they were at it, but it was too soon over. It was one-two, one-two, a thrust, and down went Dick. I heard him fall, and could hear him afterwards gasping for breath and scuffling about on the stage in his dying agonies.

After King Richard was disposed of, the orchestra, which seemed to consist of two fiddles, favored us with a very miscellaneous piece of music. There was then an interlude performed by the audience, hooting, yelling, whistling, and stamping their feet; and that being over, the curtain rose, and we had Bombastes Furioso. It was very creditably performed, but, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, it did not sound to me nearly so absurd as the tragedy.

Some half-dozen men, the only occupants of the room besides myself, had been snoring comfortably all through the performances, and now about a dozen more came in and rolled themselves on to their respective shelves. They had been at the theater, but I am sure they had not enjoyed it so much as I did.

CHAPTER XI
ON THE TRAIL

IN this part of the country the pine trees are of an immense size, and of every variety. The most graceful is what is called the “sugar pine.” It is perfectly straight and cylindrical, with a comparatively smooth bark, and, till about four-fifths of its height from the ground, without a branch or even a twig. The branches then spread straight out from the stem, drooping a good deal at the extremities from the weight of the immense cones which they bear. These are about a foot and a half long, and under each leaf is a seed the size of a cherrystone, which has a taste even sweeter than that of a filbert. The Indians are very fond of them, and make the squaws gather them for winter food.

A peculiarity of the pine trees in California is that the bark, from within eight or ten feet of the ground up to where the branches commence, is completely riddled with holes, such as might be made with musket-balls. They are, however, the work of the woodpeckers, who, like the Indians, are largely interested in the acorn crop. They are constantly making these holes, in each of which they stow away an acorn, leaving it as tightly wedged in as though it were driven in with a sledge-hammer.