California Sketches, Second Series | Page 4

to the back-door, she
called out:
"Dick!" "Dick!"
Dick, who was taking the air high up on the hillside, came at the call,
making long strides, and sounding his "Oot," "oot," "oot," which was
the formula by which he expressed all his emotions, varying only the
tone.
Dick, as he stood with outstretched neck and a look of expectation in
his honest eyes, was scooped up by our neighbor, and carried off down
the hill in the most summary manner.
In about an hour Dick was brought back. He was dressed. He was also
stuffed.

The Diggers.
The Digger Indian holds a low place in the scale of humanity. He is not
intelligent; he is not handsome; he is not very brave. He stands near the

foot of his class, and I fear he is not likely to go up any higher. It is
more likely that the places that know him now will soon know him no
more, for the reason that he seems readier to adopt the bad white man's
whisky and diseases than the good white man's morals and religion.
Ethnologically he has given rise to much conflicting speculation, with
which I will not trouble the gentle reader. He has been in California a
long time, and he does not know that he was ever anywhere else. His
pedigree does not trouble him; he is more concerned about getting
something to eat. It is not because he is an agriculturist that he is called
a Digger, but because he grabbles for wild roots, and has a general
fondness for dirt. I said he was not handsome, and when we consider
his rusty, dark-brown color, his heavy features, fishy black eyes, coarse
black hair, and clumsy gait, nobody will dispute the statement. But one
Digger is uglier than another, and an old squaw caps the climax.
The first Digger I ever saw was the best-looking. He had picked up a
little English, and loafed around the mining-camps picking up a meal
where he could get it. He called himself "Captain Charley," and, like a
true native American, was proud of his title. If it was self-assumed, he
was still following the precedent set by a vast host of captains, majors,
colonels, and generals, who never wore a uniform or hurt anybody. He
made his appearance at the little parsonage on the hill-side in Sonora
one day, and, thrusting his bare head into the door, he said:
"Me Cappin Charley," tapping his chest complacently as he spoke.
Returning his salutation, I waited for him to speak again.
"You got grub--coche carne?" he asked, mixing his Spanish and
English.
Some food was given him, which he snatched rather eagerly, and began
to eat at once. It was, evident that Captain Charley had not breakfasted
that morning. He was a hungry Indian, and when he got through his
meal there was no reserve of rations in the unique repository of dishes
and food which has been mentioned heretofore in these Sketches.
Peering about the premises, Captain Charley made a discovery. The
modest little parsonage stood on a steep incline, the upper side resting
on the red gravelly earth, while the lower side was raised three or four
feet from the ground. The vacant space underneath had been used by
our several bachelor predecessors as a receptacle for cast-off clothing.
Malone, Lockley, and Evans, had thus disposed of their discarded

apparel, and Drury Bond and one or two other miners had also added to
the treasures that caught the eye of the inquisitive Digger. It was a
museum of sartorial curiosities--seedy and ripped broadcloth coats,
vests, and pants, flannel mining-shirts of gay colors and of different
degrees of wear and tear, linen shirts that looked like battle-flags that
had been through the war, and old shoes and boots of all sorts, from the
high rubber water-proofs used by miners to the ragged slippers that had
adorned the feet of the lonely single parsons whose names are written
above.
"Me take um?" asked Captain Charley, pointing to the treasure he had
discovered.
Leave was given, and Captain Charley lost no time in taking possession
of the coveted goods. He chuckled to himself as one article after
another was drawn forth from the pile which seemed to be almost
inexhaustible. When he had gotten all out and piled up together, it was
a rare-looking sight.
"Mucho bueno!" exclaimed Captain Charley, as he proceeded to array
himself in a pair of trousers. Then a shirt, then a vest, and then a coat,
were put on. And then another, and another, and yet another suit was
donned in the same order. He was fast becoming a "big Indian" indeed.
We looked on and smiled, sympathizing with the evident delight of our
visitor in his superabundant wardrobe. He