Uniontown (now Arcata) had enjoyed the early lead among the Humboldt Bay towns. The first consideration had been the facility in supplying the mines on the Trinity and the Klamath. All goods were transported by pack-trains, and the trails over the mountains were nearer the head of the bay. But soon lumber became the leading industry, and the mills were at Eureka on deep water at the center of the bay, making that the natural shipping point. It grew rapidly, outstripping its rival, and also capturing the county-seat.

Arcata struggled valiantly, but it was useless. Her geographical position was against her. In an election she shamelessly stuffed the ballot box, but Eureka went to the legislature and won her point.

Arcata had the most beautiful location and its people were very ambitious. In fruitless effort to sustain its lead, the town had built a pier almost two miles in length to a slough navigable to ocean steamers. A single horse drew a flat car carrying passengers and freight. It was the nearest approach to a railroad in the state of California at the time of our arrival on that lovely morning in 1855.

We disembarked from the ancient craft and were soon leisurely pursuing our way toward the enterprising town at the other end of the track. It seemed that we were met by the entire population; for the arrival of the steamer with mail and passengers was the exciting event of the month. The station was near the southwest corner of the plaza, which we crossed diagonally to the post-office, housed in the building that had been my father’s store until he sold out the year before, when he was elected to the Assembly. Murdock’s Hall was in the second story, and a little way north stood a zinc house that was to be our home. It had been shipped first to San Francisco and then to Humboldt. Its plan and architecture were the acme of simplicity. There were three rooms tandem, each with a door in the exact middle, so that if all the doors were open a bullet would be unimpeded in passing through. To add to the social atmosphere, a front porch, open at both ends, extended across the whole front. A horseman could, and in fact often did, ride across it. My brother and I occupied a chamber over the post-office, and he became adept in going to sleep on the parlor sofa every night and later going to bed in the store without waking, dodging all obstructing objects and undressing while sound asleep.

We were quite comfortable in this joke of a house. But we had no pump; all the water we used I brought from a spring in the edge of the woods, the one found by the Gregg party on the night of Christmas, 1849. The first time I visited it and dipped my bucket in the sunken barrel that protected it I had a shock. Before leaving San Francisco, being a sentimental youth and knowing little of what Humboldt offered, I bought two pots of fragrant flowers heliotrope and a musk-plant bringing them on the steamer with no little difficulty. As I dipped into the barrel I noticed that it was surrounded by a solid mass of musk-plants growing wild. The misapprehension was at least no greater than that which prompted some full-grown man to ship a zinc house to the one spot in the world where the most readily splitting lumber was plentiful.

One of the sights shown to the newcomer was a two-story house built before the era of the sawmill. It was built of split lumber from a single redwood tree and enough remained to fence the lot! Within a stone’s throw from the musk-plant spring was a standing redwood, with its heart burned out, in which thirteen men had slept one night, just to boast of it. Later, in my time, a shingle-maker had occupied the tree all one winter, both as a residence and as a shop where he made shingles for the trade.

We had a very pleasant home and were comfortable and happy. We had a horse, cows, rabbits, and pigeons. Our garden furnished berries and vegetables in plenty. The Indians sold fish, and I provided at first rabbits and then ducks and geese. One delicious addition to our table was novel to us. As a part of the redwood’s undergrowth was a tall bush that in its season yielded a luscious and enormous berry called the salmon-berry. It was much like a raspberry, generally salmon in color, very juicy and delicate, approximating an inch and a half in diameter. Armed with a long pole, a short section of a butt limb forming a sort of shepherd’s crook, I would pull down the heavily laden branches and after a few moments in the edge of the woods would be provided with a dessert fit for any queen, and so appropriate for my mother.

California in those early days seemed wholly dependent on the foreign markets. Flour came from Chile, “Haxall” being the common brand; cheese from Holland and Switzerland; cordials, sardines, and prunes from France; ale and porter from England; olives from Spain; whiskey from Scotland. Boston supplied us with crackers, Philadelphia sent us boots, and New Orleans furnished us with sugar and molasses.

The stores that supplied the mines carried almost everything provisions, clothing, dry goods, and certainly wet goods. At every store there was found an open barrel of whiskey, with a convenient glass sampler that would yield through the bunghole a fair-sized drink to test the quality. One day I went into a store where a clever Chinaman was employed. He had printed numerous placards announcing the stock. I noticed a fresh one that seemed incongruous. It read, “Codfish and Cologne Water.” I said, “What’s the idea?” He smilingly replied, “You see its place? I hang it over the whiskey-barrel. Some time man come to steal a drink. I no see him; he read sign, he laugh, I hear him, I see him.”

There was no school in the town when we came. It troubled my mother that my brother and sister must be without lessons. Several other small children were deprived of opportunity. In the emergency we cleaned out a room in the store, formerly occupied by a county officer, and I organized a very primary school. I was almost fifteen, but the children were good and manageable. I did not have very many, and fortunately I was not called upon to teach very long. There came to town a clever man, Robert Desty. He wanted to teach. There was no school building, but he built one all by his own hands. He suggested that I give up my school and become a pupil of his. I was very glad to do it. He was a good and ingenious teacher. I enjoyed his lessons about six months, and then felt I must help my father. My stopping was the only graduation in my experience.

My father was an inveterate trader, and the year after our coming he joined with another venturer in buying the standing crop of wheat in Hoopa Valley, on the Trinity River. I went up to help in the harvesting, being charged with the weighing of the sacked grain. It was a fine experience for an innocent Yankee boy. We lived out of doors, following the threshers from farm to farm, eating under an oak tree and sleeping on the fragrant straw-piles. I was also the butt of about the wildest lot of jokers ever assembled. They were good-natured, but it was their concerted effort to see how much I could stand in the way of highly flavored stories at mealtime. It was fun for them, besides they felt it would be a service to knock out some of the Boston “sissiness.” I do not doubt it was. They never quite drove me away from the table.

In the meantime I had a great good time. It was a very beautiful spot and all was new and strange. There were many Indians, and they were interesting. They lived in rancherias of puncheons along the river. Each group of dwellings had a musical name. One village was called Matiltin, another Savanalta. The children swam like so many ducks, and each village had its sweathouse from which every adult, to keep in health and condition, would plunge into the swiftly flowing river. They lived on salmon, fresh or dried, and on grass-seed cakes cooked on heated stones. They were handsome specimens physically and were good workers. The river was not bridged, but it was not deep and canoes were plenty. If none were seen on the side which you chanced to find yourself, you had only to call, “Wanus, matil!” (Come, boat!) and one would come. If in a hurry, “Holish!” would expedite the service.

The Indian language was fascinating and musical. “Iaquay” was the word of friendly greeting. “Aliquor” was Indian, “Waugee” was white man, “Chick” was the general word for money. When “Waugee-chick” was mentioned, it meant gold or silver; if “Aliquor-chick,” reference was made to the spiral quill-like shells which served as their currency, their value increasing rapidly by the length. There are frequent combined words. “Hutla” is night, “Wha” is the sun; “Hutla-wha” is the moon the night-sun. If an Indian wishes to ask where you are going, he will say, “Ta hunt tow ingya?” “Teena scoia” is very good. “Skeena” is too small. “Semastolon” is a young woman; if she is considered beautiful, “Clane nuquum” describes her.

The Indians were very friendly and hospitable. If I wanted an account-book that was on the other side of the river, they would not bother for a canoe, but swim over with it, using-one hand and holding the book high in the air. I found they had settled habits and usages that seemed peculiar to them. If one of their number died, they did not like it referred to; they wished for no condolence. “Indian die, Indian no talk,” was their expression.

It was a wonder to me that in a valley connected with civilization by only a trail there should be found McCormick’s reapers and Pitt’s threshers. Parts too large for a mule’s pack had been cut in two and afterwards reunited. By some dint of ingenuity even a millstone had been hauled over the roadless mountains. The wheat we harvested was ground at the Hoopa mill and the flour was shipped to the Trinity and Klamath mines.

All the week we harvested vigorously, and on Sunday we devoted most of the day to visiting the watermelon patches and sampling the product. Of course, we spent a portion of the day in washing our few clothes, usually swimming and splashing in the river until they were dry.

The valley was long and narrow, with mountains on both sides so high that the day was materially shortened in the morning and at night. The tardy sun was ardent when he came, but disturbed us little. The nights were blissful beds so soft and sweet and a canopy so beautiful! In the morning we awoke to the tender call of cooing doves, and very soon lined up for breakfast in the perfectly ventilated out-of-doors. Happy days they were! Wise and genial Captain Snyder, Sonnichsen, the patient cook, Jim Brock, happy tormentor how clearly they revisit the glimpses of the moon!

Returning to Uniontown, I resumed my placid, busy life, helping in the garden, around the house, and in the post-office. My father was wise in his treatment. Boylike I would say, “Father, what shall I do?” He would answer, “Look around and find out. I’ll not always be here to tell you.” Thrown on my own resources, I had no trouble in finding enough to do, and I was sufficiently normal and indolent to be in no danger of finding too much.

The post-office is a harborer of secrets and romance. The postmaster and his assistants alone know “Who’s Who.” A character of a packer, tall, straight, and bearded, always called Joe the Marine, would steal in and call for comely letters addressed to James Ashhurst, Esq. Robert Desty was found to be Mons. Robert d’Esti Mauville. A blacksmith whose letters were commonly addressed to C.E. Bigelow was found entitled to one inscribed C.E.D.L.B. Bigelow. Asked what his full name was, he replied, “Charles Edward Decatur La Fitte Butterfield Bigelow.” And, mind you, he was a blacksmith! His christening entitled him to it all, but he felt that all he could afford was what he commonly used.

Phonetics have a distinct value. Uncertain of spelling, one can fall back on remembered sound. I found a letter addressed to “Sanerzay.” I had no difficulty in determining that San Jose was intended. Hard labor was suggested when someone wrote “Youchiyer.” The letter found its resting-place in Ukiah.

Among my miscellaneous occupations was the pasturage of mules about to start on the return trip to the mines. We had a farm and logging-claim on the outskirts of town which afforded a good farewell bite of grass, and at night I would turn loose twenty to forty mules and their beloved bell-mare to feed and fight mosquitoes. Early the next morning I would saddle my charger and go and bring them to the packing corral. Never shall I forget a surprise given me one morning. I had a tall, awkward mare, and was loping over the field looking for my charges. An innocent little rabbit scuttled across Kate’s path and she stopped in her tracks as her feet landed. I was gazing for the mule train and I did not stop. I sailed over her head, still grasping the bridle reins, which, attached to the bit, I also had to overleap, so that the next moment I found myself standing erect with the reins between my legs, holding on to a horse behind me still standing in her arrested tracks. Remounting, I soon found the frisky mules and started them toward misery. Driven into the corral where their freight had been divided into packs of from one hundred to one hundred and fifty pounds, they were one by one saddled, cinched, and packed. A small mule would seem to be unequal to carrying two side-packs, each consisting of three fifty-pound sacks of flour, and perhaps a case of boots for a top-pack. But protests of groans and grunts would be unavailing. Two swarthy Mexicans, by dint of cleverly thrown ropes and the “diamond hitch,” would soon have in place all that the traffic would bear, and the small Indian boy on the mother of the train, bearing a tinkling bell, would lead them on their way to Salmon River or to Orleans Bar.

Another frequent duty was the preparation of the hall for some public function. It might be a dance, a political meeting, or some theatrical performance. Different treatment would be required, but all would include cleaning and lighting. At a dance it was floor-scrubbing, filling the camphene lamps, and making up beds for the babies to be later deposited by their dancing mothers. Very likely I would tend door and later join in the dance, which commonly continued until morning.

Politics interested me. In the Fremont campaign of 1856 my father was one of four Republicans in the county, and was by no means popular. He lived to see Humboldt County record a six hundred majority for the Republican ticket. Some of our local legislative candidates surprised and inspired me by their eloquence and unexpected knowledge and ability. It was good to find that men read and thought, even when they lived in the woods and had little encouragement.

Occasionally we had quite good theatrical performances. Very early I recall a thespian named Thoman, who was supported by a Julia Pelby. They vastly pleased an uncritical audience. I was doorkeeper, notwithstanding that Thoman doubted if I was “hefty” enough. “Little Lotta” Crabtree was charming. Her mother traveled with her. Between performances she played with her dolls. She danced gracefully and sang fascinatingly such songs as “I’m the covey what sings.” Another prime favorite was Joe Murphy, Irish comedian and violinist, pleasing in both roles. I remember a singing comedian who bewailed his sad estate:

“For now I have nothing but rags to my back,
My boots scarce cover my toes,
While my pants are patched with an old flour-sack,
To jibe with the rest of my clo’es.”

The singing-school was pleasure-yielding, its greatest joy being incidental. When I could cut ahead of a chum taking a girl home and shamelessly trip him up with a stretched rope and get back to the drugstore and be curled up in the woodbox when he reached his final destination, I am afraid I took unholy joy.

Not long after coming we started a public library. Mother and I covered all the books, this being considered an economical necessity. Somewhat later Arcata formed a debating society that was really a helpful influence. It engaged quite a wide range of membership, and we discussed almost everything. Some of our members were fluent of speech from long participation in Methodist experience meetings. Others were self-trained even to pronunciation. One man of good mind, always said “here_dit_ary.” He had read French history and often referred to the Gridironists of France. I have an idea he was the original of the man whom Bret Harte made refer to the Greek hero as “old Ashheels.” Our meetings were open, and among the visitors I recall a clerk of a commander in the Indian war. He afterwards became lieutenant-governor of the state, and later a senator from Nevada John P. Jones.

An especial pleasure were the thoroughness and zest with which we celebrated the Fourth of July. The grown-ups did well in the daylight hours, when the procession, the oration, and the reading of the Declaration were in order; but with the shades of night the fireworks would have been inadequate but for the activity of the boys. The town was built around a handsome plaza, probably copied from Sonoma as an incident of the Wood sojourn. On the highest point in the center a fine flagstaff one hundred and twenty feet high was proudly crowned by a liberty-cap. This elevated plateau was the field of our display. On a spot not too near the flagstaff we planned for a spectacular center of flame. During the day we gathered material for an enormous bonfire. Huge casks formed the base and inflammable material of all kinds reached high in the air. At dark we fired the pile. But the chief interest was centered in hundreds of balls of twine, soaked in camphene, which we lighted and threw rapidly from hand to hand all over the plaza. We could not hold on to them long, but we didn’t need to. They came flying from every direction and were caught from the ground and sent back before they had a chance to burn. The noise and excitement can be easily imagined. Blackened and weary boys kept it up till the bonfire was out and the balls had grown too small to pick up. Nothing interfered with our celebrations. When the Indians were “bad” we forsook the redwoods and built our speaker’s stand and lunch tables and benches out in the open beyond firing distance.

Our garden was quite creditable. Vegetables were plentiful and my flower-beds, though formal, were pleasing. Stock-raising was very interesting. One year I had the satisfaction of breaking three heifers and raising their calves. My brother showed more enterprise, for he induced a plump young mother of the herd to allow him to ride her when he drove the rest to pasture.

Upon our arrival in Uniontown we found the only church was the Methodist. We at once attended, and I joined the Sunday-school. My teacher was a periodically reformed boatman. When he fell from grace he was taken in hand by the Sons of Temperance, which I had also joined. “Morning Star Division, N,” was never short of material to work on. My first editorial experience was on its spicy little written journal. I went through the chairs and became “Worthy Patriarch” while still a boy. The church was mostly served by first-termers, not especially inspiring. I recall one good man who seemed to have no other qualification for the office. He frankly admitted that he had worked in a mill and in a lumber-yard, and said he liked preaching “better than anything he’d ever been at.” He was very sincere and honest. He had a uniform lead in prayer: “O Lord, we thank thee that it is as well with us as what it is.” The sentiment was admirable, but somehow the manner grated. When the presiding elder came around we had a relief. He was wide-awake and witty. One night he read the passage of Scripture where they all began with one accord to make excuses. One said: “I have married a wife and cannot come.” The elder, looking up, said, “Why didn’t the pesky fool bring her with him?”

In the process of time the Presbyterians started a church, and I went there; swept out, trimmed the lamps, and sang in the choir. The preacher was an educated man, and out of the pulpit was kind and reasonable; but he persisted that “Good deeds were but as filthy rags.” I didn’t believe it and I didn’t like it. The staid pastor had but little recreation, and I am afraid I was always glad that Ulrica Schumacher, the frisky sister of the gunsmith, almost always beat him at chess.

He was succeeded by a man I loved, and I wonder I did not join his church. We were good friends and used to go out trout-fishing together. He was a delightful man, but when he was in the pulpit he shrank and shriveled. The danger of Presbyterianism passed when he expressed his doubt whether it would be best for my mother to partake of communion, as she had all her life in the Unitarian church. She was willing, but waited his approval. My mother was the most saintly of women, absolutely unselfish and self-sacrificing, and it shocked me that any belief or lack of belief should exclude her from a Christian communion.

When my father, in one of his numerous trades, bought out the only tinshop and put me in charge he changed my life and endangered my disposition. The tinsmith left the county and I was left with the tools and the material, the only tinsmith in Humboldt County. How I struggled and bungled! I could make stovepipe by the mile, but it was a long time before I could double-seam a copper bottom onto a tin wash-boiler. I lived to construct quite a decent traveling oilcan for a Eureka sawmill, but such triumphs come through mental anguish and burned fingers. No doubt the experience extended my desultory education.

The taking over of the tinshop was doubly disappointing, since I really wanted to go into the office of the Northern Californian and become a printer and journalist. That job I turned over to Bret Harte, who was clever and cultivated, but had not yet “caught on.” Leon Chevret, the French hotelkeeper, said of him to a lawyer of his acquaintance, “Bret Harte, he have the Napoleonic nose, the nose of genius; also, like many of you professional men, his debts trouble him very little.”

There were many interesting characters among the residents of the town and county. At times there came to play the violin at our dances one Seth Kinman, a buckskin-clad hunter. He became nationally famous when he fashioned and presented elkhorn chairs to Buchanan and several succeeding Presidents. They were ingenious and beautiful, and he himself was most picturesque.

One of our originals was a shiftless and merry Iowan to whose name was added by courtesy the prefix “Dr.” He had a small farm in the outskirts. Gates hung from a single hinge and nothing was kept in repair. He preferred to use his time in persuading nature to joke. A single cucumber grown into a glass bottle till it could not get out was worth more than a salable crop, and a single cock whose comb had grown around an inserted pullet breastbone, until he seemed the precursor of a new breed of horned roosters, was better than much poultry. He reached his highest fame in the cure of his afflicted wife. She languished in bed and he diagnosed her illness as resulting from the fact that she was “hidebound.” His house he had never had time to complete. The rafters were unobstructed by ceiling, so she was favorably situated for treatment. He fixed a lasso under her arms, threw the end around a rafter, and proceeded to loosen her refractory hide.

One of our leading merchants was a deacon in the Methodist church and so enjoyed the patronage of his brother parishioners. One of them came in one day and asked the paying price of eggs. The deacon told him “sixty cents a dozen.”

“What are sail-needles?”

“Five cents apiece.”

The brother produced an egg and proposed a swap. It was smilingly accepted and the egg added to the pile of stock.

The brother lingered and finally drawled, “Deacon, it’s customary, isn’t it, to treat a buyer?”

“It is; what will you take?” laughingly replied the deacon.

“Sherry is nice.”

The deacon poured out the sherry and handed it to his customer, who hesitated and timidly remarked that sherry was improved by a raw egg. The amused deacon turned around and took from the egg-pile the identical one he had received. As the brother broke it into his glass he noticed it had an extra yolk. After enjoying his drink, he handed back the empty glass and said: “Deacon, that egg had a double yolk; don’t you think you ought to give me another sail-needle?”

When Thomas Starr King was electrifying the state in support of the Sanitary Commission (the Red Cross of the Civil War), Arcata caught the fever and in November, 1862, held a great meeting at the Presbyterian church. Our leading ministers and lawyers appealed with power and surprising subscriptions followed. Mr. Coddington, our wealthiest citizen, started the list with three hundred dollars and ten dollars a month during the war. Others followed, giving according to their ability. One man gave for himself, as well as for his wife and all his children. On taking his seat and speaking to his wife, he jumped up and added one dollar for the new baby that he had forgotten. When money gave out other belongings were sacrificed. One man gave twenty-five bushels of wheat, another ten cords of wood, another his saddle, another a gun. A notary gave twenty dollars in fees. A cattleman brought down the house when he said, “I have no money, but I will give a cow, and a calf a month as long as the war lasts.” The following day it was my joy as secretary to auction off the merchandise. When all was forwarded to San Francisco we were told we had won first honors, averaging over twenty-five dollars for each voter in the town.

One interesting circumstance was the consignment to me of the first shipments of two novelties that afterward became very common. The discovery of coal-oil and the utilization of kerosene for lighting date back to about 1859. The first coal-oil lamps that came to Humboldt were sent to me for display and introduction. Likewise, about 1860, a Grover & Baker sewing-machine was sent up for me to exhibit. By way of showing its capabilities, I sewed the necessary number of yard-widths of the length of Murdock’s Hall to make a new ceiling, of which it chanced to stand in need.

Humboldt County was an isolated community. Sea steamers were both infrequent and uncertain, with ten days or two weeks and more between arrivals. There were no roads to the interior, but there were trails, and they were often threatened by treacherous Indians. The Indians living near us on Mad River were peaceful, but the mountain Indians were dangerous, and we never knew when we were really safe. In Arcata we had one stone building, a store, and sometimes the frightened would resort to it at night. In times of peace, settlers lived on Mad River, on Redwood Creek, and on the Bald Hills, where they herded their cattle. One by one they were killed or driven in until there was not a white person living between the bay and Trinity River. Mail carriers were shot down, and the young men of Arcata were often called upon at night to nurse the wounded. We also organized a military company, and a night duty was drilling our men on the plaza or up past the gruesome graveyard. My command was never called out for service, but I had some fortunate escapes from being waylaid. I walked around the bay one morning; a few hours later a man was ambushed on the road.

On one occasion I narrowly escaped participation in warfare. In August, 1862, there had been outrages by daring Indian bands, killing unprotected men close to town. Once a few of us followed the tracks of a party and traced the marauders across Mad River and toward a small prairie known to our leader, Ousley the saddler. As we passed along a small road he caught the sign. A whiff of a shred of cotton cloth caught on a bush denoted a smoky native. A crushed fern, still moist, told him they had lately passed. At his direction we took to the woods and crawled quietly toward the near-by prairie. Our orders were to wait the signal. If the band we expected to find was not too large, we should be given the word to attack. If there were too many for us, we should back out and go to town for help. We soon heard them plainly as they made camp. We found about three times our number, and we retired very quietly and made for the nearest farmhouse that had a team.

In town many were anxious to volunteer. My mother did not want me to go, and I must confess I was in full accord with her point of view. I therefore served as commissary, collecting and preparing quantities of bread, bacon, and cheese for a breakfast and distributing a packed bag to each soldier. The attack at daylight resulted in one death to our command and a number to the Indians. It was followed up, and a few days later the band was almost annihilated. The plunder recovered proved them guilty of many late attacks. This was toward the end of the Indian war that had for so many years been disastrous to the community, and which in many of its aspects was deeply pathetic. Originally the Indian population was large. The coast Indians were spoken of as Diggers, and inferior in character. They were generally peaceful and friendly while the mountain dwellers were inclined to hostility. As a whole they did not represent a very high type of humanity, and all seemed to take to the vices rather than to the virtues of the white race, which was by no means represented at its best. A few unprincipled whites were always ready to stir up trouble and the Indians were treacherous and when antagonized they killed the innocent rather than the guilty, for they were cowards and took the fewest possible chances. I have known an Indian hater who seemed to think the only good Indian was a dead one go unmolested through an entire campaign, while a friendly old man was shot from behind while milking his cow. The town was near the edge of the woods and no one was secure. The fine character whom we greatly respected, the debater of original pronunciation, who had never wronged a human being of any race, was shot down from the woods quite near the plaza.

The regular army was useless in protection or punishment. Their regulations and methods did not fit. They made fine plans, but they failed to work. They would locate the enemy and detail detachments to move from various points to surround and capture the foe, but when they got there the bushes were bare. Finally battalions of mountaineers were organized among men who knew Indian ways and were their equals in cunning. They soon satisfied the hostiles that they would be better off on the reservations that were provided and the war was at an end.

It was to the credit of Humboldt County that in the final settlement of the contest the rights of the Indians were quite fairly considered and the reservations set aside for their residence were of valuable land well situated and fitted for the purpose. Hoopa Valley, on the Trinity, was purchased from its settlers and constituted a reservation protected by Fort Gaston and a garrison. It was my pleasure to revisit the scene of my boyhood experience and assist in the transfer largely conducted through the leadership of Austin Wiley, the editor and owner of the Humboldt Times. He was subsequently made Superintendent of Indian Affairs for the state of California, and as his clerk I helped in the administration. When I visited the Smith River reservation, to which the Bay Indians had been sent, I was hailed with joy as “Major’s pappoose,” whom they remembered of old. (My father was always called Major.)

Among the warm friendships formed at this time two stand out. Two boys of about my age were to achieve brilliant careers. Very early I became intimate with Alexander Brizard, a clerk in the store of F. Roskill, a Russian. He was my companion in the adventure of following the Indian marauders, and my associate in the church choir and the debating club. In 1863 he joined a fellow clerk in establishing a modest business concern, the firm being known as A. Brizard & Co.; the unnamed partner was James Alexander Campbell Van Rossum, a Hollander. They prospered amazingly. Van Rossum died early, Brizard became the leading merchant of northern California, and his sons still continue the chain of stores that grew from the small beginning. He was a strong, fine character.

The other boy, very near to me, was John J. DeHaven, who was first a printer, then a lawyer, then a State Senator, then a Congressman, and finally a U.S. District Judge. He was very able and distinguished himself in every place in life to which he advanced.

In 1861, when my father had become superintendent of a Nevada County gold mine, he left me to run the post-office, cut the timothy hay, and manage a logging-camp. It was wartime and I had a longing to enlist. One day I received a letter from him, and as I tore it open a startling sentence caught my eye, “Your commission will come by the next steamer.” I caught my breath and south particulars. It informed me that Senator Sargent, his close friend, had secured for me the appointment of Register of the Land Office at Humboldt.

There had been a vacancy for some time, resulting from reduction in the pay from $3000 in gold to $500 in greenbacks, together with commissions, which were few. My father thought it would be good experience for me and advised my acceptance. And so at twenty-two I became a Federal officeholder. The commission from President Lincoln is the most treasured feature of the incident. I learned some valuable lessons. The honor was great and the position was responsible, but I soon felt constrained to resign, to accept a place as quartermaster’s clerk, where I had more pay with more work. I was stationed at Fort Humboldt, where Grant spent a few uncomfortable months in 1854. It was an experience very different from any I had ever had. Army accounting is wholly unlike civilian, books being dispensed with and accounts of all kinds being made in quadruplicate. I shed quantities of red ink and made my monthly papers appear well. I had no responsibility and obeyed orders, but I could not be wholly comfortable when I covered in all the grain that every mule was entitled to when I had judicial knowledge that he had been turned out to grass. Nor could I believe that the full amount of cordwood allowed officers was consumed when fires were infrequent. I was only sure that it was paid for. Aside from these ethical informalities the life was socially agreeable, and there is glamour in the military. My period of service was not very long. My father had settled in San Francisco and the family had joined him. I was lonely, and when my friend, the new Superintendent of Indian Affairs, offered me employment I forsook Fort Humboldt and took up my residence in the city by the Golden Gate.