A Tramp Through The Bret Harte Country | Page 8

came to an abrupt
end at the foot of a steep hill. In the ravine below was a house, and
there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "Carson
Flat." "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "How
much?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles." This in a tone that implied
that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However,
with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail which,

winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson Flat and
joined the main road. And there I registered a vow: "The hard highway
for me!" As a consequence of this deviation, I materially lengthened the
distance to Angel's. It is thirty miles from Tuolumne by the road, to
which, by taking the "cut-off," I probably added another three!
It is surprising how these towns grow upon one. Already the Angel's
Hotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined
the loungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on
chairs tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel. And there I
dozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening
when the electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth and
beauty of the town, up and down the winding street.
On account of the great heat that even the dry purity of the Sierra
atmosphere could not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to be
content with reaching San Andreas, the county seat of Calaveras
County, fifteen miles north of Angel's.
Apart from its name, there is something about San Andreas that
suggests Mexico, or one's idea of pastoral California in the early days
of the American occupation. The streets are narrow and unpaved and
during the midday heat are almost deserted. Business of some sort there
must be, for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its
own; but there seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish
whatever the necessities of life demand. And I may state here
parenthetically, that perhaps the most impressive feature of all the old
California mining towns is their suggestion of calm repose. Each little
community seems sufficient unto itself and entirely satisfied with
things as they are. Not even in the Old World will you find places
where the current of life more placidly flows.
On the main street - and the principal street of all these towns is "Main
Street" - I had the good fortune to be introduced to Judge Ira H. Reed,
who came to Calaveras County in 1854, and has lived there ever since.
He told me that Judge Gottschalk, who died a few years ago at an
advanced age, was authority for the statement that Mark Twain got his
"Jumping Frog" story from the then proprietor of the Metropolitan

Hotel, San Andreas, who asserted that the incident actually occurred in
his bar-room. Twain, it is true, places the scene in a bar-room at
Angel's, but that is doubtless the author's license. Bret Harte calls
Tuttletown, "Tuttleville," and there never was a "Wingdam" stage.
That evening as I lay awake in my bedroom at the Metropolitan Hotel,
wondering by what person of note it had been occupied in the "good
old days," my attention was attracted to the musical tinkle of a cow-bell.
Looking out of the window, I beheld the strange spectacle of a cow
walking sedately down the middle of the street. No one was driving her,
no one paid her any attention beyond a casual glance, as she passed.
The cow, in fact, had simply come home, after a day in the open
country; and it became plain to me that this was a nightly occurrence
and therefore caused no comment. Unmolested, she passed the hotel
and on down the street to the foot of the hill, where she evidently spent
the night; for the tinkle of the bell became permanent and blended with
and became a part of the subtle, mysterious sounds that constitute
Nature's sleeping breath.
This little incident in the county seat of Calaveras County impressed
me as an epitome of the changes wrought by time, since the days when
in song and story Bret Harte made the name "Calaveras" a synonym for
romance wherever the English language is spoken.
From San Andreas my objective point was Placerville, distant about
forty-five miles. The heat still being excessive, I made the town by easy
stages, arriving at noon on the third day. Mokelumne Hill, ten miles
beyond San Andreas, also lends its name to the little town which
clusters around its apex and is at the head of Chili Gulch, a once
famous