enty-eight.
Eighteen miles out from Stockton, at a place called Peters, which is
little more than a railway junction, you leave the cultivated land
and enter practically a desert country, destitute of water, trees,
undergrowth and with but a scanty growth of grass. I ate my lunch at the
little store and noted with apprehension that the thermometer registered
104 degrees in the shaded porch. I am not likely to forget that pull of
ten miles and inwardly confessed to a regret that I had not taken the
train to Milton. Accustomed on "hikes" to a thirst not surpassed by
anything "east of Suez," I never before appreciated the significance of
the word "parched"--the "tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth."

At Milton one enters the land of romance. What was even more appreciable
at the time, it marks the limit of the inhospitable country I had
traversed. Mr. Robert Donner, the proprietor of the Milton Hotel, told
me he once had "Black Bart" as his guest for over a week, being unaware
at the time of his identity. This famous bandit in the early eighties
"held up" the Yosemite stage time and again. In fact, he terrorized the
whole Sierra country from Redding to Sacramento. He was finally captured
in San Francisco through a clew obtained from a laundry mark on a pair
of white cuffs. For years, Mr. Donner cherished a boot left by the
highwayman in the hurry of departure, which, much to his annoyance, was
finally abstracted by some person unknown. To dispose of Black Bart;
he served his term and was never seen again in the Sierras. There is a
rumor that Wells Fargo & Company, the chief sufferers by his activities,
made it worth his while to behave himself in the future.

The following day I reached Copperopolis. This place very justly has the
reputation of being one of the hottest spots in the foot-hills. Owing to
resumed operations on a large scale, of the Calaveras Copper Company,
I found the little settlement crowded to its fullest capacity, and was
perforce compelled to resort to genuine "hobo" methods--in short, I
spent the night under the lee of a haystack. My original intention had
been to walk thence to Sonora, twenty-four miles; but finding the road
would take me again into the valley, I decided to make for Angel's Camp,
only thirteen miles away.

It is uphill nearly all the way from Copperopolis to Angel's Camp, but
mostly you are in the pine woods. My spirits rose with the altitude
and delight at the magnificent view