e sky which it reflected, and the myriad
sparks of sunshine on it twinkled like a crystal rain. Plodding through
the parched and scorching dust of the mountain-foot, through the
stifling vapor and the blinding, ochreous glare, the traveler suddenly
came upon this cool and calm delight. It was not to be descried afar,
for it lay below the level, and the oaks and other trees of shelter
scarcely topped the narrow comb. There was no canyon, such as are--and
some of them known over all the world--both to the north and south of
it. The Blue River did not owe its birth to any fierce convulsion, but
sparkled on its cheerful way without impending horrors. Standing here
as a child, and thinking, from the manner of my father, that strong men
never wept nor owned the conquest of emotion, I felt sometimes a fool's
contempt for the gushing transport of brave men. For instance, I have
seen a miner, or a tamer of horses, or a rough fur-hunter, or (perhaps
the bravest of all) a man of science and topography, jaded, worn, and
nearly dead with drought and dearth and choking, suddenly, and beyond
all hope, strike on this buried Eden. And then he dropped on his knees
and spread his starved hands upward, if he could, and thanked the God
who made him, till his head went round, and who knows what remembrance
of loved ones came to him? And then, if he had any moisture left, he
fell to a passion of weeping.

In childish ignorance I thought that this man weakly degraded himself,
and should have been born a woman. But since that time I have truly
learned that the bravest of men are those who feel their Maker's Land
most softly, and are not ashamed to pay the tribute of their weakness to
Him.

Living, as we did, in a lonely place, and yet not far from a track along
the crest of the great Californian plain from Sacramento southward,
there was scarcely a week which did not bring us some traveler needing
comfort. Mr. Gundry used to be told that if he would set up a rough
hotel, or house of call for cattle-drovers, miners, loafers, and so
on, he might turn twice the money he could ever make by his thriving
saw-mill. But he only used to laugh, and say that nature had made him
too honest for that; and he never thought of charging any thing for his
hospitality, though if a rich man left a gold piece, or even a nugget,
upon a shelf, as happened very often, Sawyer Gundry did not disdain
to set it aside for a rainy day. And one of his richest or most lavish