ries, in the form of
potatoes, onions, and butter. A band of these animals is always a
pretty sight, and you can imagine that the solemn fact of our having
been destitute of the above-mentioned edibles since the middle of
February did not detract from the pleasure with which we saw them
winding cautiously down the hill, stepping daintily here and there with
those absurd little feet of theirs, and appearing so extremely anxious
for the safe conveyance of their loads. They belonged to a Spanish
packer, were in excellent condition, sleek and fat as so many kittens,
and of every possible color,--black, white, gray, sorrel, cream, brown,
etc. Almost all of them had some bit of red or blue or yellow about
their trappings, which added not a little to the brilliancy of their
appearance; while the gay tinkle of the leader's bell, mingling with
those shrill and peculiar exclamations with which Spanish muleteers are
in the habit of urging on their animals, made a not unpleasing medley
of sounds. But the creamiest part of the whole affair was--I must
confess it, unromantic as it may seem--when the twenty-five or thirty
pretty creatures were collected into the small space between our cabin
and the Humboldt. Such a gathering together of ham-and-mackerel-fed
bipeds, such a lavish display of gold-dust, such troops of
happy-looking men bending beneath the delicious weight of butter and
potatoes, and, above all, _such_ a smell of fried onions as
instantaneously rose upon the fragrant California air and ascended
gratefully into the blue California heaven was, I think, never
experienced before.

On the 1st of May a train had arrived at Rich Bar, and on the morning
of the day which I have been describing to you one of our friends arose
some three hours earlier than usual, went over to the aforesaid bar,
bought twenty-five pounds of potatoes at forty cents a pound, and
packed them home on his back. In less than two days afterwards half a
dozen cargoes had arrived, and the same vegetable was selling at a
shilling a pound. The trains had been on the road several weeks, but
the heavy showers, which had continued almost daily through the month
of April, had retarded their arrival.

Last week I rode on horseback to a beautiful bar called The Junction,
so named from the fact that at that point the East Branch of the North
Fork of Feather River unites itself with the main North Fork. The
mule-trail, which lies along the verge of a dreadful precip