Widow. Therefore when Sunday came these men went down
in line, silently and solemnly, to the little mountain stream (allowed
to rest and run clear and crystal-like on Sunday), and stood in a row
along its banks, in top-boots, duck breeches, red shirts, and great
broad hats. Then, at a word, each man laid aside his hat, undid the
bosom of his shirt, straightened his arms, and drew his shirt up and
over his head, and then fastened his belt, and squatted by the stream,
and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. Brawny-muscled men, nude above the
waist, "naked and not ashamed," hairy-breasted and bearded, noble,
kingly men--miners washing their shirts in a mountain-stream of the
Sierras. Thoughtful, earnest, splendid men! Boughs above them, pine-tops
toying with the sun that here and there reached through like fingers
pointing at them from the far, pure purple of the sky. And a stillness
so profound, perfect, holy as a temple! Nature knows her Sabbath.

I would give more for a painting of this scene--that sun, that sky and
wood, the water there, the brave, strong men, the thinkers and the
workers there, nude and natural, silent and sincere, bending to their
work--than for all the battle scenes that could be hung upon a palace
wall. When the great man comes, the painter of the true and great, these
men will be remembered.

It is said that Diogenes, when he saw a boy drinking water from his
hand, scooped up from the stream, threw away his cup, the last utensil
he had retained.

This shirt-washing went on in some camps for years. These men were
compelled to study simplicity, and did from necessity nearly what the
cynic did from caprice. Where every man had to carry his effects on his
back for days and days, through steep and rugged paths, an extra garment
was not to be thought of. Men got used to the one-shirt system, and
seemed to like it. Some stuck to it with a tenacity hardly respectful to
the near approach of civilization.

Once upon a time, to coin a new beginning, a younger brother came out to
visit one of these brave old miners, now gray and grizzled, but true to
his old traditions and habits of life. He called on him on Sunday,
entered his cabin, and found him covered in his blankets.

"What, my brother, are you sick?" said he, after the first salutations
and embraces were exchanged.

"Sick! No, not sick."

"Then why are you in bed?"

"Oh! I washed my shirt to-day and got in bed to let it dry."

"Why! Haven't you go