-book that was on the other side of the river, they would not
bother for a canoe, but swim over with it, using-one hand and holding
the book high in the air. I found they had settled habits and usages
that seemed peculiar to them. If one of their number died, they did not
like it referred to; they wished for no condolence. "Indian die, Indian
no talk," was their expression.

It was a wonder to me that in a valley connected with civilization by
only a trail there should be found McCormick's reapers and Pitt's
threshers. Parts too large for a mule's pack had been cut in two and
afterwards reunited. By some dint of ingenuity even a millstone had been
hauled over the roadless mountains. The wheat we harvested was ground at
the Hoopa mill and the flour was shipped to the Trinity and Klamath
mines.

All the week we harvested vigorously, and on Sunday we devoted most of
the day to visiting the watermelon patches and sampling the product. Of
course, we spent a portion of the day in washing our few clothes,
usually swimming and splashing in the river until they were dry.

The valley was long and narrow, with mountains on both sides so high
that the day was materially shortened in the morning and at night. The
tardy sun was ardent when he came, but disturbed us little. The nights
were blissful--beds so soft and sweet and a canopy so beautiful! In the
morning we awoke to the tender call of cooing doves, and very soon lined
up for breakfast in the perfectly ventilated out-of-doors. Happy days
they were! Wise and genial Captain Snyder, Sonnichsen, the patient cook,
Jim Brock, happy tormentor--how clearly they revisit the glimpses of the
moon!

Returning to Uniontown, I resumed my placid, busy life, helping in the
garden, around the house, and in the post-office. My father was wise in
his treatment. Boylike I would say, "Father, what shall I do?" He would
answer, "Look around and find out. I'll not always be here to tell
you." Thrown on my own resources, I had no trouble in finding enough to
do, and I was sufficiently normal and indolent to be in no danger of
finding too much.

The post-office is a harborer of secrets and romance. The postmaster and
his assistants alone know "Who's Who." A character of a packer, tall,
straight, and bearded, always called Joe the Marine, would steal in and
call for comely letters addressed to James Ashhurst, Esq. Robert Desty
was found to be Mons. Robert d'Esti Mauville. A blacksmith whose letter