162 East and West 
done away with, but the sound of the flume 
brings up the picture as last I saw it. 
Out of a nozzlecalled a‘‘ giant’’—and.a giant 
it was, compared with which the fireman’s 
nozzle is but a toy—rushed a stream of water 
which ate into the hearts of the hills and 
carried them off as in a flood, while the reced- 
ing waters were diverted into sluice-boxes 
where they deposited the gold washed from 
the soil. Round about this region you may 
see the ruined foundations of those ancient 
hills which the ‘‘giants” of old laid low. The 
camps had not entered upon their sleep then; 
flumes roared and nozzles played by day, 
faro and poker were played by night, and 
the valiant spirits of that time were induced 
not only by the freedom of the life, but by 
the most execrable whiskey that has ever 
helped to destroy the morals and the stomach 
of man. 
One summer, long ago, the droning bees 
without did sadly distract my thoughts from 
the droning Latin within, and day by day 
the desire to be away from both books and 
fences grew apace until at length I escaped— 
with scant courtesy to Learning—and set 
out to see the world. At Auburn, a village 
on the western edge of the Sierra, began my 
