A pocket full of rocks bring home,
So, brothers, don't you cry!”
A hundred men roared out the refrain:
“Oh! California,
That's the land for me!
I'm bound for San Francisco,
With my wash-bowl on my knee!”
The fur trader grinned and nodded over his tin cup of steaming coffee.
“Some of 'em will do their singing out the other side of their mouths before they finish the first five hundred miles; eh, California?”
“I reckon so,” said Rogers, sententiously.