IN BRET HARTE'S COUNTRY. 



In each trip I have made to and from California, I 

 have kept a weather eye out for the romantic argonautic 

 characters so dramatically portrayed by Bret Harte and 

 Mark Twain. But romantic border heroism and border 

 chivalry ceased to exist when the trail was abandoned, and 

 the puffing of the engine superseded the crack of the whip 

 lash and the adventurous glory of the overland stage 

 days. There are, also, no more John Oakhursts, Sandy 

 McGees or Yuba Bills. But I did see a Colonel Starbot- 

 tle, dignified, courteous, suave and warm-hearted ; dis- 

 tinguished, effusive; florid of face and speech and grandly 

 pompous ; courtly and portly and elegant. You have to 

 fall in love with him, can't help it — he was the solicitor 

 for the railway eating house at Truckee. He wore well- 

 polished boots, hands in his striped trousers pockets, fancy 

 vest of loud pattern, slouch hat, black shiny low-rolling 

 collar, coat that had seen better days, a big chain and 

 gold watch charm, chin whiskers and a thin, feeble mus- 

 tache. ("Starbottles" invariably have a fair crop of short 

 chin whiskers and a slight mustache — that is one way 

 you tell them.) Having eaten, I sauntered out on the 

 platform, when a tall, dark man, somewhat grizzly, in 

 shirt sleeves, riding a good-looking sorrel horse, with his 

 coat thrown across the pommel of a Mexican saddle, 

 alighted back of "Starbottle" and giving that gentleman 

 an unexpected whack on the back with his left hand, he 

 stuck his right around in front for a shake, at the same 



