A Bear-Hunt in the Sierras 



bad Spanish around the camp-fire. Had this 

 been the rendezvous of Sicilian brigands, it 

 doubtless would have had a slightly more pic- 

 turesque appearance, but the difference would 

 have been only of degree, not at all of kind. The 

 absence of rain made tents unnecessary. Piles 

 of bedding, of cooking and riding equipment, 

 defined the encampment. Around the fire a 

 dozen Mexicans clustered, of whom, except 

 the chief herder and Leonard, not one spoke 

 English. They wore the broad hats of their 

 race, and were arrayed for protection against 

 the cool night winds of the Sierras in old and 

 shabby cloaks, some of which had been origin- 

 ally bright in color, but now were subdued by 

 age and dirt into comfortable harmony with 

 the quiet tones of the mountain and the forest. 

 Old quilts and sheepskins carpeted a small 

 space where we had been invited to seat our- 

 selves upon our arrival. Then, as throughout 

 our stay, every possible mark of hospitality 

 was shown us — a delicious, faint survival of 

 Castilian courtesy. 



Long after I had turned in, somewhere in 

 the dead vast and middle of the night, I was 

 aroused by the sound of scurry and scampering 

 among the bunch of sheep which was rounded 



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