Dutch Flat—A Retrospect 159 
diggings and with the silent forests of the 
Sierra. 
This morning, a tramp into Dutch Flat 
through the deep red dust inspired feelings 
that no tenderfoot can ever share; for that 
cloudless sky, that limpid air, even that red 
dust aroused a certain dormant spirit of 
nomadism, a tramp instinct, which was wont 
long ago to lead like a will-o’-the-wisp over 
the mountains. A few small dwellings at the 
edge of the village, though apparently inhab- 
ited, gave no sign of their occupants. No 
dog barked, no horse neighed. Some low 
brick houses whose windows had once pos- 
sessed heavy iron shutters were deserted, 
the shutters prone upon the ground. Turning 
a corner, the village street appeared, and surely 
no enchanted castle was ever plunged in pro- 
founder lethargy. Here and there a chair 
of the kind to be met with in Western bar- 
rooms—worn and shiny with age—stood at 
the edge of the sidewalk and in two of these, 
doubtless in the same spot and tilted at the 
same angle as a quarter of a century ago, 
sat two old men, the only sign of life in the 
apparently deserted village. Their legs were 
encased in blue overalls tucked into cowhide 
boots, their flannel shirts open at the throat, 
