Our world during that solemn hour was
circumscribed, reaching back only to the busy scenes of the morning,
and forward to the little home that should open to us on the morrow.
When we resumed travel, we did not follow the pioneers' trail, once
marked by hoof of deer, elk, and antelope, nor the winding way of the
Spanish _cabellero,_ but took the short route which the eager tradesman
and miner had hewn and tramped into shape.
On reaching the ferry across the Sacramento River, I gazed at the
surrounding country in silent amazement. Seven and a half years with
their marvellous influx of brawn and brain, and their output of gold,
had indeed changed every familiar scene, except the snow-capped
Sierras, wrapped in their misty cloak of autumnal blue. The broad, deep
river had given up both its crystal floods and the wild, free song
which had accompanied it to the sea, and become a turbid waterway,
encumbered with busy craft bringing daily supplies to countless homes,
and carrying afar the long hidden wealth of ages.
The tule flat between the water front and Sutter's Fort had become a
bustling city. The streets running north and south were numbered from
first to twenty-eighth, and those east and west lettered from A to Z,
and thriving, light-hearted throngs were pursuing their various
occupations upon ground which had once seemed like a Noah's ark to me.
Yes, this was the very spot where with wondering eyes I had watched
nature's untamed herds winding through the reedy paths to the river
bank, to quench their morning and evening thirst.
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