The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 25, 1895, Page 36

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1895 12 west by Lon »ywn of Laytonv ; eighteen or twenty real res aker could ses, but they seem to keep the place on a do a little farmwork kes them. d besid: st lean con- discus- e CO! rable enjoyment from thei sions over the horse block, or under the big oak in frontof the b mith shop. And then, when everything else fails, v have th age. The stage passes ) at 10 o'clock at night, and north at 3 in the morning, both ti stopping to cbange horses, 1.ayton- 1 )n, and the gossip of rife among the in- aird used to drive on the Ukiah s north to Bell Springs. as a typical mountaineer, who spoke his words with a t ana chewed to- ov. 1aju momentous oce d a gun, He could u his reput; eldom had to do took his day o 3 ks, and he always spent it in La There was a good reason for this. Jennie s, the daughter of old John Gates, e stable, was just out of 1, and was considered the in the upper valley Y many but his opinion was the only ted, as it was well under- 1y g ana the s and those entitled to orse block acted accord- Billy could shoot, even Purdy 4 5 who kept the 5 the town one nig Winter in L ks and waterc ten to twenty Christmas is a season of and.roads me i time is neverthe- rved by the upper vailey stivities are alivays in order, but th mails must come and go and the stagc- with fr upon them. less rigidly 0 and driver must spend his f stive hours upou the road. By rights it was Biily’s day off, but the first i Iment to pay tie miners in the new coal fieids, near Covelo, had been shipped to Ukiuh on Christmas eve and B: bad to take the run, but he wonld get into Laytonville by 3 o'clock in the morning, just when the dauce was wel! going, and he would drop into the set with Jennie Gates while Jim McDowell took his place on the box to Beil Springs. This was what Biily was thinking of as he gathered up his reins at Willits. He meant to put the team through in spite of the mud, so he braced one foot on the treasure-box and the other on the brake and started down the hill at a run. There was no one but himself in the coach, so he could go as he pleased. There was not much mail and only one Wells-Fargo pack- age—the box. It was heavy, but a shaking up would never hurt the money, so Billy cracked his whip again and urged his Jeaders on. He knew of the treasure; but he had carried treasure before, and his only preparation was to shift his belt a little to bring his hi r farther to the front. There were others, too, though, who knew of the treasure, and other prep- arations were going on up among the hills. It stormed enough for any driver, but Laytonville was only a short distence ahead, and that distance was rapidly growing shorter. If it hadn’t been rain- ing Billy might almost have seen the lights of the town from the last grade, but it was raining, and besides it was very dark. The stage creakeG and rattled on and the splash cof the horses’ hoofs. as they churned in the mud, drowned all other sounds. But a sound c: t the quick ear of the driver and be stiffened in his | seat like a man of steel. What he heard was the splash of hoofs, but they beatina wild gallop, while his own horses were go- ing on a steady trot. Laytonville was only two miles away—it must be some reveler returning home—but Baird shifted his belt stiil farther forward, and grasping his reins and whip in his left hand he kept his right free. Near came the splash of the approach- ing horse and before the driver knew it the leaders reared on their haunchies and the wheelers, forced onward by the rat- tling stage, piled up beside them in a tan- gled mass of reins and traces. “Stand!” cried a voice from the road ahead, and a moment after a mounted figure loomed up in the darkness. “Stand be damned !” came from the box, and two shots flashed in the air and min- gled their reports with the crack of the driver’s whip as it flew out over the horses. They sprang forward and the stage lurched heavily as the wheels ground the fallen rider into the roadway. He must escape the rest of the gang, was Baird’s only thought as he plied the lash and shouted to his team. There was a group around the gate of Van Helm’s hotel when Biily jerked his four bays to a standstill under the lantern. “Y’r horses, boy the driver yclled. “Y’r horses and y'r guns. They tried t' hold me up a picce down the road, an’ I bagged one. Quick! Git y’r horses and come along !” Van Helm caught Baird by the arm as NG VALLEY On the foothills of Long Valley — ruarded on the east by the towering peaks | e Mer ains, and skirted iesthe | reets and er, except | on, and | W.F.BVRKE S ) S NN he sprang from his seat. ‘“The box,”’ he | whispered, and with a triumphant “Oh, {no! the driver hauled it off the foot- | board. | It doesn’t take long to get o horse in | Laytonville. There was no word said and | within a few seconds the road was filled | with stalwart rangers following Baird's ‘ lead, as lantern in hand, he galloped back | through the mud. “It was about here,” he said finally, as | be slackened his pace. “I'm sure I bagged | one, "cause T know I ran him down. Git | off'n y'r horses 'n spread out 'n hunt with | ¥'r feet :f ye can’t see.” They spread out and stamped around, bnt finding nothing they came back to the | | road again where, lying on ‘its side, the | driver’s lantern was smoking ifself out. | The driver himself was half kneeling in | the road, and beside him, her head pil- lowed on his kuee, lay a woman, while the man bent over her wiping the mud from | her face. One flash of the lantern was enough McDowell swore a great cath. “She came to warn him,” he said, fiercely. “Here we kep’ a-dancin’ and a- drinkin’, knowin’ this ’ere hold up was talked on, and not one on us with sense t’ come down theroad. Billy! Biily!” he said, his voice breakii.g as he laid his | hand on the driver’s shoulder. ‘‘Let's | take ber home; it’s all we can do for her now.” | But Billy looked up from his burden | and laughed- sheepishly at first, but then | gradually raising his voice in a wild peal of demoniac mirth, until the woods rang with the sound and the men paled and | drew away from him. i * % ox % | fou W He's in Ukiah now—in the asylum. He isn’t troublesome unless you try to tuke that little ring away from him, and then he's dangerous. He.was bringing it to her for her Christmas. STIANDS #OR HOME COMFORT. (as Ranges Loaned Consumers Ready | for Use Absolutely Free of | This is the aze of the modern gas range. At least its rapid growth in favor among house s shown by the heavy nd incre mand on the stove depart- | menit of the San Francisco Gaslight Com- | pany, ias established its practical and economical success. | Like many modern innovations the use of gas for cooking and heating has been by many misunderstood and heretofor: untried. While its convenience and many advantages have been apparent to the rea- soning mind, yet until late years a skepti- cism has existed as to its economy. This doubt has long since been dispelled among the greater portion of our housekeepers, and to-day a vast number enjoy the clean- liness and innumerable advantages of a | modern gas range, and it is safe to say that where used with ordinary care and der fair conditions enthusiastic praise pressed by the users. Gas is clean, for there is no smoke, no | oot and no ashes. It is quick, because he heat is concentrated and intense, and t goes right to work. It is economicali, ecause it saves dirt and labor; because 1t oes in half an hour what requires two hours of a coal range, and because it is used only when actually needed, while coal burns long after its heat is required. Gas is always available and operates in- stantly, a great contrast to the disagree- able and time-losing process of paper, kindling and coal, which attend the start- ng of a coal range e ach morning. It may also be safely stated that an ordinary breakfast can be vrepared on a gas range in the actual time required to geta coal range ready for cooking. Another most important point, and one which is quickly appreciated by the house- wife, is the fact that the gas range has two ovens, operated with the same heat and expense, thus permitting baking to be done in the upper oven while roastinz is done in the lower. To roast meatand bake bread in the ordinary coal range re- quires at least two hours’ time. Witha was range, both ovens being used at once, the time necessary will not exceed three- quarters of an hour. In the question of economy this is a most important con- sideration—here is a saving of time, a saving of labor and certainly a saving of fuel. The heat from a gas-range burner is formed by the mixture of 'air apnd gas in provortions of about 70 and This forms a perfect smokeless combination and blue heat. There are, perhaps, many whio have, in mentally estimating the ex- pense of a gas range, not understsod this feature and have based their calculations on the consumption of gas as used for | lighting. Gas ranges are made with and without water-back attachment. The latter aux- { iliary is constructed on the same plan as in the case of ranges using other fuel, and is similarly connected to the boiler. Water can be heated with small expense in less time than with a coal range, and 4 cents’ ; worth of gas will heat the usual 30-gallon | boiler. The management of a gas range in- cludes no complications. It is simplicity itself, and a child could safely operate it so far as the turning on and off*of the heat is concernéd. It is conceded that, by reason of its in- tense and even heat, pastry is more per- fectly baked and meats more delicately roasted and broiled than by any other | heating agent. This is evidenced by the fact of its use in many of the best hotels and cafes of this City. As to the rejative cost of coal and gas, the latter, if used with reasonable care, is the cheaper. 1t is not possible to estimate just the cost of a month’s cookin- on a gas range, as it depends largely on the intel- ligence and conditions attending its use. It can be safely stated, however, that, with ordinary economy and care, the expense will certainly be less than by the use of | other fuel. The fact of its successful and satisfactory nsein many families of limited incomes would seem ample proof of this assertion. The announcement that the company is now prepared to make a loan of gas ranges of any size to consumers is a liberal one, and housekeepers will uot be slow to avail themselves of it. The ranges will also be connected, free of all charge, with inde- s e pendent meters, and ready for use, at the rate of $1 75 per 1000 cubic feet.® This re- markable inducement is offered for the purpose of demonstrating the superiority of gas over coal ranges in comfort and economy. The stove department of the company, located at 226 Post street, is an interesting place, including in its varied stock the latest improvements in heaters and gas appliances, as well as many new styles of asbestos grates designed for modern man- tels, for which there is a large and increas- ing demand by reason of their efficiency and economical heating. S oLl 4 TOO MUCH LEGISLATION. A Statesmz2n Would Enforce Good | Lews and Repeal Bad Ones. “There are too many laws enacted,” said John T. Dare, Prosecuting Attorney of the criminal courts. *‘Now, Iclaim that we have laws enough, both State and municipal. Let us enforce those we have without fear or favor, 1o the end that the good laws may win the approval of all good men and the bad laws be the sooner repealed by the voice of the people as ex- pressed through their legislators.” Mr. Dare is certainly entitled to speak with weight on the enforcement of the laws. His successin prosecutingand break- | ing up the gang of swindlers who infested this City and operated the bogus mining exchange is remembered. His prosecu- tion of the pool-sellers is considered a service to society. He has secured several convictions already, and he has much support from the community in his efforts to purge the City of this menace to our youth. Mr. Dare came to California in 61 before the mast. He was in turns a pony-ex press rider in Arizona and member of the Legislature, represented Soiano County in the Legislature, was District Attorney of this City in 1885, and two years later was Attorney-General of Hawaii. He has stumped the State successfully for the Re- publican candidates, On the stump be is regarded as one of the strong men in his party in the State. While he has been active in politics he has made a study of s cal economy, and has many of the qualities of a statesman. Although ag- | gressive in the performance of his duties, his opponents testify to his uniform fair- | ness and courtesy LN el ARIZONA RED SANDSTONE. | A Favorite Building Material Exten- sively Used in This City. A lasting and handsome building stone, perhaps the most attractive used in this City, is the beautiful Arizona red sand- stone now being put into the Spreckels t mansion, on Van Ness avenue, by the big contracting firm of McPhee, Grolier & Sutton. More than $75,000 worth of this one material will be used, and the carvings upon it will cost $30,000 more. The first two stories of the California Hotel were also constructed by this firm of Arizona red sandstone, as well as many other pub- lic and private structures. A notable piece of work from the yards of McPhee, Grolier & Sutton, 1219 Market street, are the eight large monoiiths, with | elaborately carved caps,which guard the en- trance to the Presiaio. The moncliths, made of Redding gray sandstone, weigh about thirteen tons each, the caps five tons each. The carvings on the four sides of the caps are the emblems of the Navy and War de- partments entwined with wreaths of laurel, ‘They are said to be the finest stone carv- | ings on the coast. McPhee, Grolier & Sutton deal in the native building stones of California, Ore- gon, Arizona and Nevada, and also Cali- fornia marbles. They are prepared to successfully carry out the largest kinds of building contracts. Perhaps the most no- table piece of their finished work in this | City is the stone front of the magnificent new Spreckels building on Market street, opposite Mason. They also built the | pretty front to the Scott residence on Jack- | son street, and have recently completed | the new business block of the Breuner es- | tate in Sacramento. T e season had been disastrous for Ro er Godfrey. Cinnamon Valley. The been dry and the sheep men in previous winter had usual grass had all been eaten off ranges by june. The summer had been | hot, with-moie than the usual number of dry north winds. The creeks had gone dry for the first time in twenty years. Cattle and sheep must have grass and water or they will die, and the result was that Cinnamon Valley was strewn with carcasses. Every day Roger Godirey saw his sheep stazger, fall, bleat once or twice and expire; and every sheep that died meant that he was just §2 poorer. On the 1st day of June he had counted his sheep and there were exactly 1004; on the Ist of September he counted them again and 1; there were on the 1st of Oetober he could find but 130; and when, on the morning of December 1, he ran his eves over the remnant, of his flock there were just seventy left. Seventy lean, miserable sheep, hardly able to stageer about. Tieir ribs showed along their emaciated sides and the beat- ing of the feeble pulse was plainly visible on their sunken flanks. There was no shearing to be done, for starved sheep have no wool, 50 this source of income was cut oif. There was no fight left in the ske! ton rams and the eves of the ewes were large and bright. It was a famous fall for coyotes. Every night Roger couid hear them lauching and snarling over his sheep and lambs. The valiey was alive with them. They howled and yelped and barked from sun- set to sunrise, and when Roger emerged from his cabin in the morning he could count them by the dozen, sitting on their haunches and licking theic yellow chops. The famine was on. The grass was gone and when the flock staggered over the range they raised a cloud of gray dust that floated into their mouths and parched toeir paiates. The nearest water was four miles off. Roger drove them there in the morning and drove them back in the aiter- noon and when they got back they sank exhausted on the dusty ground. For weeks he éxpected that every day would prove the last drive. To adad horror to the famine the rain held off, ard if no rain came during the winter there would be no grass the following summer. This meant ruin. Cinnamon Valley was a sight ‘those dark days. It looked like the valley of the shadow of death. Sianding at the door of his cabin Roger could see nothing but a great yellow plain stretching away for miles, flanked on both sides by black tawny mountains without even a tree on their barren slope. They reminded him of the mourntains of the moon. Small spots of white dotted the flat plain as far as he could see. They were the bones of his starved sheep. The whole country looked the abomination of desolation. Though Roger had got down to his last dollar and there was barely enough provi- sions in the cabin to carry him over Christ- mas, he felt that he could have got along somehow if he had been alone. But there were a wife and child in that lonely cabin, fifteen miles away from the nearest neigh- bor, and they wrenched his heart. They were a cheerful young couple when they had come out to California irom Iowa and squatted in Cinnamon Valley three years before. Now Roger was a gaunt old man with haggard face and sunken eyes and a long, matted beard thai floated down over his chest. And the blue-eyed* farmer’s daughter, who had taken him for better or for worse? She, too, was gaunt and hag- gard and old, and the despair of ruin was set on her pinched face and peered out from her shining eyes. And the boy, the golden-haired offspring | of the famine—he, too, was getting gaunt and haggard. When Roger looked at him a great rebellion arose in his heart and he scowled at the sky above, as if recognizing a persecutor there. But the mother crept out bebind the cabin and wept. And so Christmas approached. Tne jackals laughed all night, the vultures wheeled about in midair all day or hopped awkwardly from one heap of bones to another. And the rain still held off. As if to further torment them the sky had a treacherous trick of clouding up and promising rain, only to clear off and leave them one step nearer despair. And every Indeed, as far as that goes, it | ad been disastrous for all the catile and the | - WRITTEN FOR THE CALL BY | day ses on the be day befor: Christmas Roger came ome with his staggering sheep, and strode ito the house. “Do you know what to-morrow is?” he emanded hoarsely of Betsy. *It's Christmas, Roger,”” she answered faintly, and began to cry. “Aye!” he said. “It's the Lora’s day,” said little Toby, who was sitting on tle Joorstep. Roger uttered a smothered exclamation. “Oh, don’t, Roger!” pleaded his wife. “Don’t tempt Providence.” “Providence!” ied Roger, fiercely. “What is Providence, that it leaves us here to starve? Look out yonder!” and he pointed through the open door. “What do you see? Carcasses! Vultures! Where is the rain? ~ Where will we be a month hence? Providence, indeed!” and thrust- ing his hands into his pockets, he strode out of doo “Am I to hang up my stocking for Santa Claus to-night?” asked Tohy of his mother, “Do you think he wili see a little boy tike me?"” Yes, he would. It had been Rogerls in- tention to ride over to Beechams Bar, eizhty miles sourhwestward, to get some trifles for Toby and Betsy for Christmas, | but when the famine is on, and the rain holds off, and the sheep are dying, and the coyotes and vultures eome up to the very door of the cabin, it becomes a question of life and not of Christmas presents, so he did not go. But he had volished a ram’s horn until it shone, and finished off the hollow end with a cover of bright tin for a cornucopia, and Betsy had cut up an old dress for some gay neckerchief for Toby’s sunburned neck, so he would get some- thing, aiter all, even though the specter of starvation might already be stalking across the plain toward the cabin. “We'll give the poor little chap something, any- how,”” quoth Roger; ‘“he may never see another Christ B So, when nizht fell and the sky dark- eued, as usual, with the clouds that never rained, and the coyotes began to laugh and gnash their fangs around the lonely cabin, Roger threw a log into the fire- vlace, and Toby hung up his little blue sock in the glare of the flame—**Where he can seeit,” said Toby; “‘and,now, mamma, read to me about the birth of the Lord,” he said, cuddling down at her knee. So she read to him of the Babe of Beth- lehem, while his eyes opened with inter- est and her own grew moist with the tears. But when Toby knelt to say. his littie prayer that night he changed it. “O God,” he said, “I shall sit up to-night to see Santa Claus come down the chimney; and send scme things for pa and ma, O G>d! Send some rain, so the sheep won't dic. Semd grass! Tell Santa Claus, O Lord!”’ Toby refused to go to bed. Santa Claus would surely come down the chimney at midnight and thé rain would come with him, ard there would be good times once more in _the little cabin in Cinnamon Valley. Nor could he be dissuaded. He had asked the Lord, and the Lord would do it. So he said, in his childish way, and when they went to bed they left im sitting on the hearth, leaning on his little brown hahd and looking into the great fire. The evening went on. The little clock on the sheif above the fireplace told off the minutes to 10 o’clock, 11 o’clock and after. The fire gradually died down. Roger and Betsy were asleep, but still | Toby sat on the hearth, lobking into tbe | coais, waiting for Santa Claus, while the red glow'of the fire flickered .over his golden curls like the caressing hand of an angel. Five minutes to 12. Thus marked the clock. Toby straightened himseli up ard smiled aloft at the dark ceiling. Perhaps he looked up to the Lord. Possibly an angel swept down over him and touched his lips with a tender finger. Who knows what children see? Two minutes. He looked for his father and mother. But darkness had closed around them and the bed was invisible. So he looked back to the fire, and bis eyes sought the dark aperture of the chimney. One minute. A little crash in the fire rarked the falling of an end of log. Sparks flew up and a yellow flame arose over the aggot. It cast a cheerful light all over FREDERICK H.DEWEY | the room. It revealed Roger and Betsy fast asleep in their homely bed. 1tillu- minated the little face on the hearth and | showed the countenance of a cherub—a couantenance wreathed in smiles, with blue eyes, waiting for the Lord. The clock began to strike. The boy crept on all fours to the very edge of the tire and cast an affectionate glance at his little blue scck hanging limp and empty to the shelf above the fire. One! two! three! A sudden rush over- head. a sound as of a great wind sweeping the forest, of cohorts of angels, of ava- lanches, reindeer, snowslides—a deep, in- tense roar. The boy was radiant. Christ had heard his little prayer and Santa Claus had come. There was a commotion in the chimney, a cloud of soot fell down into the glowing coals and down came—a cove, beautiful and gentle, right into the fire. Little Toby had the dova out of the fire | and into his lap in a second. ‘“Mamma! papa!” he cried. ‘‘See what Santa Claus has brought.” Roger and Betsy sprang out of bed just as the clock finished striking twelve. “It’s a message from the Lord!"’ mur- mured Betsy, awe-stricken. “Ivsa wild pigeon,” said Roger. *It's E a night-flight and one of them struck the | chimney and tumbled in. It’s wet—the | rain has come.” Sure enough; they could | hear it on the roof, increasing in vigor. A southeast wind, too, was sighing. It was a storm. “God sent it with the rain,” said little. Toby, fondling the dead pigeon. *To- morrow I'li bury it at the roots of the rosebush at the porch.” “Our luck has turned,” said Betsy, her eyes filling with tears. ‘“Hear it rain!” There will be grassin five days. “Kneel, Roger.” So they knelt on the hearth, and Betsy poured out her soul to the Lord in her fer- vent woman’s way. But Roger’s eyes were wet, too, and his rebellious soul was a rebel no longer. When Toby got up in the morning his little blue sock was stuffed with the cornucopia made of the ram’s horn and the gay neckerchiefs, and his face was the face of an angel. And the rain was driv- ing in from the mountains in great sheets on the breast of the southeast wind, and the ground was wet and the grass was growing, and the coyotes had disappearsd and there were no more vultures, and the sheep were standing erect and chewing their cnds. The famine was off, and in a week Cinnamon Valley would be green from mountains to mountains. Thus saith the Lord. . After breakfast out in the rain went Toby to bury the pigeon that had brought the rain down the chimney. He laid off a little oblong diagram under the big rose- bush that grew beside the porch, and be- gan to dig, with the soft warm rain splash- ing down on his little back. Presently he ran inte the cabin with what appeared to be a large yellow potato in hishand. “See, mamma! See, papa!” he cried. “‘The pretty golden stone!” Roger seized it, glared at it, rolled it over on his palm, “hefted” it, tossed it, smelt it and turned pale. ‘“Betsy,” he said, hoarse with excitement, *it’s a nugget of gold. The cabin stands over a gold mine and we are rich, rich!” Oh, Tobey, my boy, what did your pigeon bring?” And thus the cabin became a palace. The famine was off, the luck had turned and the good times had come again. But Roger was wrong; there was no gold mine under the’cabin. He dug up an acre of ground around the house, but found no more gold. But the nugget turned up by Tobey for the pigeon’s grave was enough to make Roger and Betsy free from care the rest of their lives. And this is why a pretty white house now stands where the cabin formerly/ stood; and Roger is again a lusty young rancher and Betsy a blooming youny wife. And the sheep number 10,000 now, and Cinnamon Valley is green with rich thick grass and gay with buttercups and wild pansies, and the coyotes have gone back to their mountain lairs and the vultures no longer flop their sinister black wings over the plain. And Tobey has plenty of pretty toys for Christmas and is fat enough to pose as a cherub. The old rose bush is still there anda little white cross marks the grave of the gigeon that brought the rain. /4 In 1853 R. M. Daggett and J. McDonough Foard started the Golden Era as a weekly. miscellaneous literary paper. Considering the topsy-turvey condition of things in general at that time, it was a risky venture and dire failure was predicted. But the founders were not to be discouraged. Be- ing young, ambitious and competent, they went at it with a will. Daggett could turn oif a good deal of newspaper work when the mood was on him, while Foard put in his time industriously between the editorial and composing rooms. Both were expert printers, and made their skill count. Within a year the Era had a pretty solid bottom to stand upon, and was still going ahead. It became a favorite in the mines, and was a welcome visitor in almost every camp in the State. The “‘country edition” was printed on Thursday, dated the fol- lowin Sunday, to be as fresh as possible to interior readers on its publication day. Daggett was considerable of a rustler then, though baying since been Congressman and acquired an equatorial rotundity that precludes active exercise, and besides, he don’t feel like rustling any more. Any kind of exertion is distasteful to him now. Though one of the readiest and most pungent writers or. the coast, he dis- likes the effort. The pen is too heavy for tie hand that wielded the pick and shovel or deitly shook the rocker. In the early days of the Lra he used totaketo the mountains to solicit subscriptions. Being smooth of speech and very attractive in conversation, hesides being a thorough backwoodsman, he zathered many names into his list, cash in advance. On one of these trips, somewhere in the southern mines, he ran across a number of Joaquin Murietta's band of thieves and waylayers, headed by the notorious “‘Three-tingered Jack,” who was Joaquin’s lieutenant. They captured the itinerant scribe and tied him up to a tree to make sure that he would not change his iocality while they indulged in a bit of a carousal; and they cinched him to the tree solidly, too, with a hair rope—a ‘‘mecate’’—so tight, indeed, that the fakes of the rope compressed his abdomen most uncomfortably, the marks of which may be seen to tuis day when the wearer is willing to dispiay them. Fortu- nately for Daggett the notorious Jouquin was absent from the band, probably on some expedition of murder and robbery. “Three-fingered Jack’” was the most hideous-looking miscreant that ever went unhung, but he had pride that could be tickled. When he questioned Daggett as to whether he recognized any of the gang the latter pointed to Jack as Joaquin. The villain was so pleased at being mis- taken for the bandit chief that he turned the prisoner loose to continue the pursuit of subscribers. = Daggett's sketches of mining life and mountain experiences were the cream of sprigistly writing. As “Blunderbus” he alternated petween wit, humor, ridicule and sarcasm. In bitter vituperation there was hardly his equal. The miners “liked his style” and swore by the Era. He could write in the sweetest strain and fill you with pleasant sensations or make your bair stand like the straws in a whisk- broom. The Era gradually collected around it a following of literary people, amateurs and professionals—R. M. Greeley, Calvin B. oualis 4 T WRITTEN FOR THE CALL be lost to journalism. Were it necessary for him to get down to work he would be heard of again. But he is ‘‘well-fixed” and knows how to enjoy his good fortune, which nobody begrudges him. D. E. McCarthy was a natural-born journalist. What he could not learn from others he taught to himself. Particularly peculiar in many respects—disagreeably grave and rollickingly gay almostin the same breath—he wasat heart a noble man. None brighter than he when newspaper work was to be done. His ideas were his own. He borrowed nobody’s brains, and, right or wrong, wanted things to go his way without deviation. If he antagonized a few who did not understand him, he also drew to bhimself many friends and re- tained them. He was one of the best real, practical journalists that California ever produced. He hag been dead about ten years, but his name still continues at the head of the Virginia Chronicle, which for some years he marked with his char- acteristics. Elbridge Gerry Page (Dow Jr.) was an- other of the old Era stand-bys. He died in harness in 1859. He was too queer for anything. He would make a rag-baby laugh or cry at will. His “Patent Ser- mons” had attracted counsiderable atten= tion in the New York Mercury before he came to California and had been published in book form. Taking a sericus thought for a text he would dress it up in a gro- tesque manner peculiarly his own. He would trifle with the finest feelings of one’s nature until scalving seemed too good for him, but there was a happy con- clusion to everything. Pulling at one's heartstrings one moment and tickling him to laughter the next, he showed up the dark and bright sides of life, and made the “sermons’ a leading feature of the Era for some years. As ‘Sol Soaker” be was an irresistible humorist. Fun fairly gurgled out of him like molasses out of a jug. Then he would sober up and dispense the most somber stuff ever heard outside of a darky funeral. ‘‘Dow” was a droll creature. Had he lived he would have totaliy eclipsed most of our Ilatter-day joke- carpenters. But he joked himself to death one day, and the Era force buried him in good style at Lone Mountain. - n '59, Bret Harte blew down from the upper country and ‘“got a case’’ on the FEra. He was a pinched, punv, ornery- 10ooking automaton, for whom it would not have been reasonable to predict a notice- able future. But it seems, in the light of these davs, that there was good leather in him, though there was not much polish on it at the time. He built little screeds which were tucked away in obscure corners of the paper to escape observation. By-and-by he wrote a sketch entitled “Boges on the Horse,” which was really good, and Harte went up anotch in the estimation of those who thought he was only what he looked to be. He was in- dustrious, and the good leather became more and more apparent, until he was promoted to a corner in the editorial- room to do literary chores, and there he remained at hackwork until he obtained a situation in the Mint and became too big to sit in an ordinary chair. He was not a companionable man. In fact, it seemed as if he tried to be disagreeably McDonald, Dan de Quille, Comet Quirls |,gjstant. His face pitted like a waifle-iron, (Kendall), Lieutenant Derby (John Phee- | eves like dull opals, and a sort nix), Joseph P. Goodman, D. E.McCar-|{of falsetto voice, he was in no- thy, Elbridge Gerry Page (Dow Jr.), Dr. Prefontaine, C. B. Howe. the erratic but talented steambost runner; Doc Hoyt, John R. Ridge (Yetlow Bird), A. De- lano (Old Block), Thomas J. Foard (Torpedo), J. E. Lawrence, and others whose names are difficult to reclaim from the obscurity of forty years. Later on came Bret Harte, Prentice Mulford, Mark Twain, and more, who atleast ‘‘picked up’” some schooling in the Era office. Greeley banked on being a nephew of the Orily Horace of the great Tribune. He was a most prolific seribe, but his men- tal range was like a Spanish cattle ranch. It was bard to round-up his ideas so that one could fully comprehend him at all times. He believed that there was too much punctuation; that commas and periods clogzed the sense of an article; so he would write long paragraphs without a point of any kind, l.aving the reader gasping for breath at the end. But he was | brignt, nevertheless, needing only a bsl-i ance-wheel. | Calvin B. MacDonald (*‘the Triple! Thunderer”) was also a regular on the Era staff. At that time he was a graceful paragraphist, condensing a great deal of | meaning into a small space. He would occasionally soar off into fancy flights of hyperbole, entrance you with gorgeous word-painting and then drop you with & bewildering thump on the hardest place he could find; but he could write. Some | of his things will live a long time after Cleveland’s messages are forgotten. still in the land, but must be ‘‘getting along toward the ferry.” “Dan de Quilie” (William Wright) was then in his prime. contributed a column of his quaintness from his home in the bills, and it was al- | ways good reading. Genial old *‘Dan” couldn’t be stupid if he tried. With profitable information and entertaining persifiage he made his column attractive. He never ruptured himself 1o be humor- ous, but the humor was there all the time, not infrequently peppered witk double- edged wit. For about thirty-five years be has camped at the footof Mount David- | son, actively engaged in journalism until the last ten years, which ne bhas devoted_ principally to miscellaneous writing. ‘When his claim “‘peters” the old moun- tain will don an extra cap of snow, for there never was but one ‘“Dan de Quille.” Joseph T. Goodman and D. E. McCarshy took theiy first lessons in journalism in the Era office. Both of them were bright as stars. Dennis required a spus to induce him to work, “Joe’’ needed a pair, but when they fairly got at it, as they did in after years, they made a good team, as the success of the Territorial Enterprise showed. Goodman is a polished writer when he ‘“sets his mind on it,”” which is seldom, as he is not inclined to worry Heis ! Nearly every week he | wise attractive. But the leather was there. James E. Lawrence, who suce ceeded Daggett and Foard or the Era, cuz- zened up to Harte, cultivated and boosted him, and he became so great a man in letters that he was invited to straddle the tripod of the Overland Monthly, which he did gracefully. 0 A year or two afterward Prentice Mul- ford came down from his Jimtown school in Tuolumne and essayed journalism of the literary kind. He was a good-hearted fellow, but so odd. He was afflicted with a chronic grievance of some sort. Misan- thropic and morose at most times, ordina~ rily he would loosen up his grievances and be as jolly as anybody, but not for long. Jollity did not seem to agree with him. He was jaundiced, yet there was never a more sympathetic soul than Mul- ford. In a remote corner of his heart there seemed to be something that ached all the time. He kept in the byways of life and shunned anything that would at- tract attention to himself. A pleasant talker, it was difficult to get him started. His writings all bore traceof his phleg- matic temperament. He would have made a good Robinson Crusoe, as he loved to ba alone. Industrions and painstaking In any work assigned him, he seemed to think it improver to accept pay for it. He would have starved rather than make known his wants even to a friend. He aied alone in his little -canoe on Long Island Sound a few years ago. Early in 1860 Daggett & Foard sold the Era to J. E. Lawrence and with T. B. Rutherford started the Daily Mirror. It seemed at first to have 2 fair prospect, but the War of the Rebellion was coming on. Things were not only warm, but how. The people wanted all the Eastern news, and wanted it badly. The telegraphic reports were monopolized by the Bulletin, Alta and Sacramento Union and no other paper could get in for love or money. This worked aeainst the Mirror, so that it finally succumbed to the adverse circum- stances, which compelled it to print sec- ond-hand news. Daggett went to Virginia City and became a stockbroker, amassing a neat fortune, which eventually flowed backto the source whence it came, Then he fell from grace entirely and went to Congress, where his efforts gave Nevada as generous a school fund as any State pos- sesses. McDonough Foard followed journal- ism in San Francisco until he was called for and passed over to the silent majority. For about ten years the Era was a kin- dergarten for aspiring seribes. Almost anybody adapted to literary work of any kind could find an opening in which to air bimself. The old files of the paper, if in existence, would be a mine of choice clip- pings for one who can ply shears judi- ciously. — much, choosing rather to follow the bent of his will, which will never lead him to where he will be compelled to sacrifice per- sonal ease. Itisto be regretted that such a well-stored head as “‘Joe” carries should “Well,” said Yuss, “I've taken a powder for my headache, a pellet jor my liver and 8 capsule for my gouty foot. Now, what puzzles me is, how do the things know the right place to go after they get inside?” — Philadelphis - American.