TOWN OF GRASS VALLEY. 227 
The long shadows of the trees are swallowed up 
in the gathering gloom, the music of the forest 
has died away, and, save the wind sighing through 
the leafy foliage, everything is still. My com- 
panion draws nearer. ‘Stranger,’ he began, in a 
voice that appeared to come from his boots, and 
get out at his nose, ‘jist war we are standin’, 
three weeks agone, a tarnation big grizzly come 
slick upon two men, jist waitin’ for the stage, as 
we are; chawed up one, and would a gone in for 
t’other, but he made tall travellin’ for the stage. 
When they came up Ephraim had skedaddled, 
and they never see him or old Buck-eye arter.’ 
This is refreshing! I hope if ‘old Ephraim’ does 
come, he may eat my tough companion. The 
stage came, but the bear did not. We reach our 
destination at 8 p.m.: how sore I am! 
March 27th.—A. good sleep has worked won- 
ders. I find Grass Valley a romantic little 
mountain town, about 2,200 feet above the sea- 
level, on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada, 
owing its existence entirely to gold-mining. 
Visited Mr. A.’s mill—a magnificent quartz- 
crusher. Nine stamp-heads, each 900 lbs. in 
weight, are worked by one of Watts’ engines. 
The fine-dust gold is collected on blankets, or 
bullocks’ hides with the hair on, over which the 
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