California Sketches, Second Series | Page 6

few steps forward, stumbles, falls into the whirling
waters below, and is swept downward with fearful velocity. At last,
with desperate struggles he half swims, and is half washed ashore on
the same side from which he started, to find a dreary land where the sun
never shines, and the cold rains always pour down from the dark skies,
where the water is brackish and foul, where no flowers ever bloom,
where leagues may be traversed without seeing a deer, and grizzly
bears abound. This is the hell of very bad Indians--and a very had one it
is.
The worst Indians of all, at death, are transformed into grizzly bears.
The Digger has a good appetite, and he is not particular about his eating.
He likes grasshoppers, clover, acorns, roots, and fish. The flesh of a
dead mule, horse, cow, or hog, does not come amiss to him--I mean the
flesh of such as die natural deaths. He eats what he can get, and all he
can get. In the grasshopper season he is fat and flourishing. In the
suburbs of Sonora I came one day upon a lot of squaws, who were
engaged in catching grasshoppers. Stretched along in line, armed with
thick branches of pine, they threshed the ground in front of them as
they advanced, driving the grasshoppers before them in constantly
increasing numbers, until the air was thick with the flying insects. Their
course was directed to a deep gully, or gulch, into which they fell
exhausted. It was astonishing to see with what dexterity the squaws
would gather them up and thrust them into a sort of covered basket;
made of willow-twigs or tule-grass, while the insects would be trying to
escape; but would fall back unable to rise above the sides of the gulch
in which they had been entrapped. The grasshoppers are dried, or cured,

for winter use. A white man who had tried them told me they were
pleasant eating, having a flavor very similar to that of a good shrimp. (I
was content to take his word for it.)
When Bishop Soule was in California, in 1853, he paid a visit to a
Digger campoody (or village) in the Calaveras hills. He was profoundly
interested, and expressed an ardent desire to be instrumental in the
conversion of one of these poor kin. It was yet early in the morning
when the Bishop and his party arrived, and the Diggers were not astir,
save here and there a squaw, in primitive array, who slouched lazily
toward a spring of water hard by. But soon the arrival of the visitors
was made known, and the bucks, squaws, and papooses, swarmed forth.
They cast curious looks upon the whole party, but were specially struck
with the majestic bearing of the Bishop, as were the passing crowds in
London, who stopped in the streets to gaze with admiration upon the
great American preacher. The Digger chief did not conceal his delight.
After looking upon the Bishop fixedly for some moments, he went up
to him, and tapping first his own chest and then the Bishop's, he said:
"Me big man--you big man!"
It was his opinion that two great men had met, and that the occasion
was a grand one. Moralizers to the contrary notwithstanding, greatness
is not always lacking in self-consciousness.
"I would like to go into one of their wigwams, or huts, and see how
they really live," said the Bishop.
"You had better drop that idea," said the guide, a white man who knew
more about Digger Indians than was good for his reputation and morals,
but who was a good-hearted fellow, always ready to do a friendly turn,
and with plenty of time on his hands to do it. The genius born to live
without work will make his way by his wits, whether it be in the lobby
at Washington City, or as a hanger-on at a Digger camp.
The Bishop insisted on going inside the chief's wigwam, which was a
conical structure of long tule-grass, air-tight and weather-proof, with an
aperture in front just large enough for a man's body in a crawling
attitude. Sacrificing his dignity, the Bishop went down on all-fours, and
then a degree lower, and, following the chief; crawled in. The air was
foul, the smells were strong, and the light was dim. The chief
proceeded to tender to his distinguished guest the hospitalities of the
establishment, by offering to share his breakfast with him. The bill of

fare was grasshoppers, with acorns as a side-dish. The Bishop
maintained his dignity as he squatted there in the dirt--his dignity was
equal to any test. He declined the grasshoppers tendered him by the
chief, pleading that he had already breakfasted, but watched with
peculiar sensations the movements of