162 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Makoh 26, 13»5. 



THROUGH TWO-OCEAN PASS. 



X.«— THE PKOSPECTOB. 



HpHE Prospector and his Partner had, the day before, 

 J- killed, with their revolvers, a white swan, and this 

 slaughter having aroused the Partner's ardor he had started 

 out this morning to kill a deer. As he rode out of camp 

 toward the mountains on the east side of the valley he 

 announced that he was not going to return without meat. It 

 was a good day for hunting, for the rain that had fallen in 

 the valley had been snow, even in the lowest foothills, and 

 if there were any game there, the fact would become known 

 to the hunter as soon as he began to climb the hills. 



After dinner that evening the Prospector came over to our 

 fire and after nodding a salutation, sat down on a log. He 

 then drew from his pocket black a wooden pipe which he 

 began very solemnly to clean out with the blade of his pocket 

 knife. After the pipe was clear he put it in his mouth, wiped 

 the blade of his knife on the leg of his overalls, drew from his 

 pocket a small piece of tobacco from which he whittled off 

 a pipe full and then returned plug and knife to his pocket. 

 He next industriously broke up the fragments of tobacco 

 with his fingers, and then ground it together between his 

 palms, and when it was fine enough to suit him, filled his 

 pipe, carefully returning the surplus dust to his pocket. 

 Then taking a stick from the ground he drew out a number 

 of coals from the ashes of the fire and selecting one of proper 

 size picked it up between his ringers, threw it into the naked 

 palm of his right hand, where he tossed it about for a few 

 seconds so that it should not burn him, and finally dexter, 

 ously placed it in the bowl of his pipe. Pressing it down 

 with his calloused forefinger he drew deep long puffs through 

 the pipe, and when the tobacco was well alight, tossed the 

 coal back into the fire. Up to this time not a word had 

 passed except good evening, and most of us had been watch- 

 ing the visitor's movements with the greatest interest. The 

 pipe lighting ceremony over, the look of care and absorption 

 left the Prospector's face and he sighed contentedly as he 

 turned toward us. 



"Has your partner got back?" some one asked. 



"No," said Prospector, "he aint got in yit. He said he 

 wan't goin' to come back 'tbout a deer, and 1 reckon he 

 aint killed nothin', and don't like to come in. He'd ort to 

 taken the dog along, V I told him so, but he said he didn't 

 want no dog when he's huntin'. He's a great dog for deer, 

 though, aint ye, Jack? I reckon ye didn't none o' ye see 

 that deer he chased out o' the brash that night ye got in. 

 He just made him hump himself. He's a mighty well-bred 

 dog he is — got considerable greyhound blood in him. Ye 

 can see that from the way he's built. Seen any sign of min 

 eral round these hills, Perfessor?" he continued. "I washed 

 a few pans corain' down, and got two or three colors, but 

 nothin' to sinnify. I'm just goin' down from Cceur d'Alene 

 to Colyrado ; goin' to take in the Wind River Mountains on 

 my way down. May strike somethin' pretty good over there. 

 I heard tell of some rich float in them hills." 



With this exordium the Prospector opened on us the flood- 

 gates of his speech and a volume of words came tumbling forth 

 in a wild current, whose rush and tumult silenced all other 

 speech. He talked so fast that each word seemed anxious to 

 be spoken first. No one else had a chance to speak, and for a 

 couple of hours he held us there by the fire and recounted 

 stories of the various mining excitements in which he had 

 taken part, of the regions that he had prospected and the 

 claims that he owned. It appeared from his tale that he 

 was on terms of close intimacy with most of the millionaire 

 mining kings of the West, and in fact had been instrumental 

 in making the fortunes of many of them,- but his labors had 

 hitherto been wholly altruistic, confined to making those of 

 otheis and he had neglected his own. All this and much 

 more the Prospector told us, and so interested was he in his 

 tale that when the sharp trot of his partner's horse was heard 

 on the prairie and then coming down the bluff and through 

 the willows up to the other fire, he only interrupted himself 

 long enough to call out, "The beans is settiu' by the fire and 

 the coffee's just inside the tent door," and then went on 

 with his story. When at length he left the fire we were 

 all more or less in a state of collapse, and one of the men 

 remarked : 



"Well now, he aint no talker, I guess," to which another 

 responded: "He'd ought to be a temperance lecturer, he 

 had." 



There is to me always something very pathetic about a pros- 

 pector. As a rule no class of men perform so much severe 

 physical labor for so little return as they. They spend their 

 last dollar to get a. "grub stake" and usually after working 

 hard all summer find themselves at the beginning of winter 

 absolutely without money. Perhaps they then get a job of 

 winter work, for which often they receive only their board, 

 and at the return of spring bend all their energies toward 

 acquiring money enough to fit themselves out for another 

 summer's campaign, selling or mortgaging for this purpose 

 everything that they possess. Often, being wholly without 

 funds, they make a bargain with some capitalist, or some 

 one of their richer fellows to furnish them with the necessary 

 provisions and tools to prosecute their work, agreeing that 

 in return for this advance the man who furnishes the money 

 shall have one-half interest in the discoveries which they 

 may make. Often, too, they accumulate a load of debt 

 which it seems hopeless to wipe out. 



Occasionally, it is true, a prospector does "strike it rich," 

 but even when he does so, unless the circumstances are ex- 



ceptionally favorable, he is obliged, through lack of capital 

 to develop his mine, to sell it out to some wealthier man 

 for a very small fraction of its apparent value. Usually, how- 

 ever, he either spends the summer in vainly seeking for 

 some rich lead of which he has found indications, or else 

 works at the development of some "prospect," which, 

 though not yet rich, he hopes may become so, or perhaps 

 works some old claim which barely pays him ordinary day's 



And yet the prospector is almost always cheerful and 

 hopeful. He has an abiding faith that some day he will 

 "strike it," and always looks at the bottom of his pan, or 

 examines the rock in the bottom of his shaft after each shot 

 in eager expectation ; for may not this at last be the lucky 

 stroke which is to transform him from a mere shoveller of 

 dirt or wielder of hammer into a "bonanza king"? I know 

 of few things more touching than the simple, trustful 

 fashion in which, after a hard day's work in the mountains, 

 the prospector will come into camp at night, and after turn- 

 ing out of his pockets the bits of rock picked up during the 

 day, will discourse of their possible value. He will tell you 

 how this bit of ore looks rich, how that one appears exactly 

 like a piece of rock that came from the "Gosh All Friday" 

 mine in Colorado, which assayed $7,400 to the 

 ton; how a third resembles the ore on the strength of 

 which old Dan Murphy bought the "Bull Elk" mine in 

 the Salmon River country, which has paid a handsome profit 

 outside of working expenses ever since the shaft got down 

 thirty feet; and so on through the whole list of specimens. 

 Then he will sigh and tell you that he wishes he had his as- 

 saying outfit with him, so that he could determine the exact 

 value of these specimens, and tell just which indications he 

 had better follow up. He never loses faith in his ultimate 

 success, and his hopefulness is, to one who knows how very 

 rarely any real success is met with by men of this class, sad- 

 dening rather than cheering. And yet the life is an attract- 

 ive one. The prospector is more utterly independent and 

 free than any other man in the world, and is always antici- 

 pating a reward for his labor, enormous— out of all propor- 

 tion to it, and though always disappointed, hope springs 

 eternal in his breast. He will go on climbing the rough 

 mountain trails, and penetrating into the narrow defiles as 

 long as he has strength to wield spade and pick and to pull 

 on a lash rope. He will be a prospector to the end of the 

 chapter. 



Even as he left us that night, our friend announced 

 that he was going down into Colorado, where he should 

 spend the winter developing some claims that he had there, 

 and, he continued, sinking his voice to a confidential tone, 

 "One or two of 'em looks mighty rich, an' I reckon, if they 

 turn out the way they look like they're goin' to, I'll hev to 

 go East 'fore spring." 



t jIw gparteiqmi ^onti$U 



UNCLE LISHA'S SHOP. 



THE prophet of the almanac had written along the June 

 calendar, "Now, perhaps, a spell of weather," and his 

 prognostication was being verified. For two days the rain 

 had come down from the leaden sky, now in drenching 

 showers, now in drizzles slanting to the earth before the 

 gusty northeast wind, and still it came clown. A robin in 

 the apple tree where his mate shingled their nest with her 

 half-spread wings only left off "singing for rain" to preen 

 his wet feathers, and then began again his broken song, 

 cheerful enough but for its import to seem unsuited to its 

 accompaniment, the splash of the rain, the doleful sighing 

 of the wind, and the sullen roar of the swollen streams. The 

 beaten-down blossoms that whitened the ground beneath the 

 apple trees, as if an unseasonable flurry of snow had fallen 

 there, looked unlike blossoms now, but added another dreary 

 feature to the dreary landscape; the little brown house with- 

 out light or shadow' on its wails; the dripping, wind-swayed 

 trees; the sodden fields and woods ghostly behind the gray 

 vail of rain, bounded by the blurred, flat wall of mountains, 

 and roofed by the low sky. 



When some of Lisha's friends, troubled by a vague rumor 

 that had floated about the valley, visited the shop that day, 

 they found it was as cheerless inside as out, chilly, damp 

 and tireless, and unoccupied by its owner, whose apron lay 

 upon the shoe bench. Sam Lovel seated himself there, and 

 when presently Lisha entered from the "house part," and he 

 arose to give him his accustomed seat, the old man said: 

 "Keep your settin', Samwill; I haint workin' none to-day," 

 and after pottering in an aimless way amoug his stock and 

 tools, set about lighting a fire. After repeated clearing of 

 his throat, wherein the words seemed to stick, he said as he 

 whittled the kindling, "Wal, boys, where ye goin' to loaf 

 evenin's next winter?" 



"Why, right here, of course, Uncle Lisher," said bam, 

 "you haint goin' to turn us aou'door be ye?" 



"No, I haint a goin' to turn you aou'door, I'm a goin' to 

 turn myself aou'door. The fact o' the business is, Jerushy 

 V 1 has 'baout made up aour minds to go aout West an' live 

 'long wi' George." 



"Wal, we heard some such talk," Sam said, "but we didn't 

 scasely b'lieve the' was nothin' on it only talk, the' 's so much 

 dum foolish gab a goin' nowerdays. An'," he added, "I 

 haint heard none 'at saounded foolisher 'n this, tu me." 



"Wal, uaow, ye see," said Lisha, shutting the stove door 

 and after watching the fire a minute, seating himself upon a 

 sap tub. "me 'n my ol' woman 's a gettin' ol' 'n' ont' the 

 daown hill side, 'n' 't won't be many year 'fore we can't du 

 nothin' scasely on'y set raouud, 'n' we haint got nobody to 

 ta' keer on us theu on'y aour boy. He 's sol' aout in the 'Hio, 

 an' is goin' to Westconstant to live, a, gret ways furder n the 

 'Hio, tew, three States beyund it, I hiieve. 'Taint a State yit, 

 I guess Westconstant haint, but on'y a terry-toiy. Seems 



ough we couldn't stan' it to hev him no furder off 'n what 

 he is naow, an' so ye see, we've c'ncluded to go an* live 

 'long wi' him. He 'a ben a teasin' on us tu this ever so long, 

 but 1 kinder hated tu, for I'm sorter growed in here, 'n' I 

 hate tu naow, but 1 guess it's the best way." 



"Wal, I guess 'taint," said Sam, very decidedly. "You 

 hev growed in, both on ye, an' it'll be julluk pullin' up tew ol' 

 trees an' settiu' on em aout agin, 'n' ye won't stan' it no 

 better. No, Uncle Lisher, not a mite better 'n tew hemlocks 

 took up an' sot aout. It'll be a diff'ent s'il o' land for ye, 

 diff'ent breed o' neighbors— 'f ye hev any— 'n' they say 't 

 that 'ere western country 's flatter 'n a pancake, 'thaout a 

 maountin er a big hill tu be seen, so 's "t it tires a feller's eye- 

 sight clean aout a trav'lin* so fur 'thaout nothin' to stop it. 

 An' no woods like aourn, they say. Haow long ye think ye 

 can stan' it 'thaout the smell o' spruce in yer nose, er 'thaout 

 seein' the ol' Hump er Tater Hill, er so much as little Hawg's 

 Back a stan'in up agin the sky?" 



"Yas, sah, One Lasha, dafc so," Antoine put in. "You 

 was be so lonesick you come dead raght off, bose of it, 

 An' Jerrushy too, you see 'f he ant !" 



"An' if ye don't die," Sam continued, "the dum'd Iniins 

 '11 kill ye." ._ J 



"Sho!" said Lisha, smiling grimly at Sam. "You're a 

 putty feller, a talkin' 'baout dum'd Iniins arter bein' thicker 

 'n puddin' with 'em for a fortni't, V they riggin' on ye aout 

 wi' a canew 't you c'n navygate 's a mushrat can his own 

 body. Naow, r'aly, Samwill," he went on, hoping to change 

 the subject, "when I seen ye gittin' into 't over there t' the 



0, wal," said Sam, impatiently, "my Injuns is tame. I 

 guess 't you'll find aout 't them painted, turkey-feathered 

 cusses aout West is a diff'ent breed o' cats, with their war- 

 whoop in' an' screechin', an' skelpin' ol' folks an' babies, 'n' 

 the Lord knows what the devil's own work they haint up 

 tu." 



"Sammywell's argyments is good," said Solon Briggs. 

 "The' haint nothin' more sartiner 'n that old, ann-cient Tn- 

 dyviddywills hed ort to continner to remain in the natyve 

 laud 'at they was horned in." 



"Good airth an' seas!" the old man roared, "what's the 

 use o' yer talkin'? I tell ye I'm a goin' 'f I don't live a week 

 arter 1 git there! Haint I tougher 'n a elum guuri? Haint I 

 fit your Injins gran'thers to Plaltsburg? I c'n stan' the 

 rack it, I guess! I c'n fight Injins agin, I guess! H'mph! 

 ye talk 's if 1 was a ten ye'r ol' boy, or a skeery little gal!" 

 And then lowering his voice to a kindlier tone, "I hate to 

 go.'sl said afore. I alius luff ted to hev my neighbors 

 'raound me, 'n' I've hed good uns, an' got 'em yit, an' 1 hate 



my days with him. An' his mother y'arns arter him more 

 'n I du, an' — wal, we're a goin', an' the' ha' no tew ways 

 'baout it, ner no use a talkin'. I've sol' aout tu Joel Bart- 

 lett, an' we've drawed writin's— an' that's the long an' short 

 on't." 



"Wal," said Sam, "if you're sot on it, 'n' everything 's all 

 cut an* dried, the' haint no use a talkin'. But 1 sh'ld think 

 't you might ha' said suthin' to some on us 'fore ye went so 

 fur. 'T would ha' ben friendlier. I swear! I wish 't the 

 dum'd torment 't invented that ere cussed western country 

 hedu't never ben borned ! A breakin' up fam'lies an' puttin' 

 notions inter ol' folkes' heads, blast him!" and said no more, 

 but sat staring out at the gloomy landscape that, seen through 

 the green and wrinkled panes of the long window, looked 

 gloomier and more dismal than ever. 



They spoke no more of Lisha's intended departure, and 

 after a few feeble attempts at conservation, sat and smoked 

 in silence till the day grew darker with the coming on of 

 evening, and then the visitors departed. 



Toward the end of summer Lisha and his wife were ready 

 to begin their journey, and after the kindly fashion of those 

 days, some of their neighbors accompanied them to the place 

 where they were to embark in the canal boat that would take 

 them the' length of "Clinton's big ditch" on their way. 

 Pelatiah drove the lumber wagon whereon was piled the 

 "housel stuff" reserved from the "vandew," Then came a 

 like coveyance, driven by Sam Lovell, and carrying Lisha 

 and Jeriisha, Joe Hill and his wife, Solon Briggs and 

 Antoine, and a day's provisions for the party. They jolted 

 over the rough road and through the little hamlet that the 

 forge and store and tavern gave life to, and then taking the 

 road along the bank of the noisy little river, the old people 

 turned their backs upon the green wall of the mountains and 

 entered on their long journey westward. Lisha was as cheer- 

 ful as could be expected when his heart was heavy with the 

 sorrow of leaving his old home, and he was suffering the dis- 

 comfort of his high-collared, tight sleeved best coat and the 

 weight of his bell-crowned haC He pointed out the farm 

 where the first settler of Dan vis had "pitched," the hill where 

 Pelatiah's grandfather killed a panther, discoursed of the 

 changes that had come since he first knew the town, made 

 some strained efforts at joking with Antoine, and talked on 

 and on when he had nothing to say. Aunt Jerusha wept 

 silently in the seclusion of her new gingham sun bonnet, 

 comforting herself with frequent pinches of snuff that 

 afforded her an excuse for as frequent use of her handker- 

 chief. 



At noon they stopped to bait their teams and eat their lunch 

 under some wayside trees and then went on. In the middle 

 of the afternoon they entered the little city that marked the 

 end of the first stage of the old people's journey, and the 

 wonders of its few three-story buildings, its three churches, 

 and the court house perched upon the crest of a ledge, in 

 which, Lisha told them, "the leegislatur sat onct,' so dazed 

 Pelatiah that he nearly missed finding the way to the wharf 

 where the canal packet lay. There new f wonders met his 

 astonished gaze. A rifle shot up stream the river almost as 

 wide as the length of the forge pond, the largest sheet of 

 water he had ever seen till now, foamed and thundered down 

 a precipice forty feet high, and then its vexed waters writhed 

 along a deep, broad reach, past the wharves, where lay the 

 canal boats and the little steamer that was to tow them to 

 the lake and then to Whitehall. 



Lounging about these strange immense craft were the 

 surly or saucy canal boatmen, upon whom the young 

 mountaineer looked with awe. for they were traveled men 

 who must have seen nearly all of the great world, having 

 been more than once to the end of the canal and back again, 

 and some, it was said, had even beheld the wonders and 

 glories of that almost fabulous city by the sea. New York. 

 v "Tt> an airly day," said Lisha, "some o' the Yorkers built 



