In the Sierra 



solitude to most people seems hard to bear. 

 He seldom has much good mental work or 

 recreation in the way of books. Coming 

 into his dingy hovel-cabin at night, stupidly 

 weary, he finds nothing to balance and level 

 his life with the universe. No, after his dull 

 drag all day after the sheep, he must get his 

 supper; he is likely to slight this task and 

 try to satisfy his hunger with whatever 

 comes handy. Perhaps no bread is baked; 

 then he just makes a few grimy flapjacks in 

 his unwashed frying-pan, boils a handful of 

 tea, and perhaps fries a few strips of rusty 

 bacon. Usually there are dried peaches or 

 apples in the cabin, but he hates to be both- 

 ered with the cooking of them, just swal- 

 lows the bacon and flapjacks, and depends 

 on the genial stupefaction of tobacco for the 

 rest. Then to bed, often without removing 

 the clothing worn during the day. Of course 

 his health suffers, reacting on his mind ; and 

 seeing nobody for weeks or months, he 

 finally becomes semi-insane or wholly so. 



