A PROFUSION OF BIRD LIFE 



me of the deserted mining town of Copperopolis in 

 California, as it looked when I saw it last. 



The country will produce anything, yet the people 

 round about this town are so lazy, that no one within a 

 mile has a private fruit or vegetable garden. 



The government levies a heavy tax on the Chinese 

 who emigrate to this country in hopes of improving 

 their fortunes. Every one holds them in contempt : 

 nevertheless, if it were not for their industry, the dis- 

 solute English and Scotch would have nothing to sus- 

 tain life but roast beef and whiskey. 



In my walks about the country I used often to wan- 

 der through the well-tilled grounds of the Chinese. 

 Not a weed grew among their well-kept plants, and 

 nature coaxed into good humor yielded them an 

 abundant harvest. If I wanted a good meal of the 

 choicest fruits, I always knew where to find it. Pine- 

 apples, that make your mouth water; yellow-skinned 

 bananas, waiting to be eaten ; guavas, oranges, and 

 melons ; all could be had for a few pennies from the 

 pleasant, painstaking Chinamen, the most polite men in 

 the community. 



A mile or two from the town were a number of 

 lagoons, where I used to go shooting. They were alive 

 with birds, which at the report of a gun rose, in clouds, 

 from the water and muddy margins of the pools, and 

 the noise of their wings was like distant thunder. 



Lovely slate-colored herons, the perfection of grace 



