THE SEQUOIA 280 



I found an old, weary-eyed, speculative, gray- 

 haired man on a bark stool by the door, reading 

 a book. The discovery of his hermitage by a 

 stranger seemed to surprise him, but when I ex- 

 plained that I was only a tree-lover sauntering 

 along the mountains to study Sequoia, he bade 

 me welcome, made me bring my mule down to a 

 little slanting meadow before his door and camp 

 with him, promising to show me his pet trees 

 and many curious things bearing on my studies. 

 After supper, as the evening shadows were 

 falling, the good hermit sketched his life in the 

 mines, which in the main was like that of most 

 other pioneer gold-hunters — a succession of in- 

 tense experiences full of big ups and downs like 

 the mountain topography. Since " '49 " he had 

 wandered over most of the Sierra, sinking in- 

 numerable prospect holes like a sailor making 

 soundings, digging new channels for streams, 

 sifting gold-sprinkled boulder and gravel beds 

 with unquenchable energy, life's noon the mean- 

 while passing unnoticed into late afternoon shad- 

 ows. Then, health and gold gone, the game 

 played and lost, like a wounded deer creeping 

 into this forest solitude, he awaits the sundown 

 call. How sad the undertones of many a life 

 here, now the noise of the first big gold battles 

 has died away ! How many interesting wrecks 

 He drifted and stranded in hidden nooks of the 

 gold region ! Perhaps no other range contains 



