[Footnote 58:  Originally and very favorably known by the assumed name of “Grace Greenwood.”]

* * * * *

=_Francis Bret Harte,[59] 1837-._=

From “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” &c.

=_246._= BIRTH OF A CHILD IN A MINER’S CAMP.

...  The camp lay in a triangular valley, between two hills and a river.  The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill that faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon.  The suffering woman might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay,—­seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.

A fire of withered pine-boughs added sociability to the gathering.  By degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned.  Bets were freely offered and taken regarding the result.  Three to five that “Sal would get through with it,” even, that the child would survive; side bets as to the sex and complexion of the coming stranger....

In the midst of an excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door, and the camp stopped to listen.  Above the swaying and moaning of the pines, the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire, rose a sharp, querulous cry.  The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the fire to crackle.  It seemed as if Nature had stopped to listen too.

The camp rose to its feet as one man!  It was proposed to explode a barrel of gunpowder; but, in consideration of the situation of the mother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers were discharged; for, whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or some other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast.  Within an hour she had climbed, as it were, the rugged road that led to the stars, and so passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever....

I do not think that the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation as to the fate of the child, “Can he live now?” was asked of Stumpy.  The answer was doubtful.  The only other being of Cherokee Sal’s sex and maternal condition in the settlement, was an ass.  There was some conjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried.  It was less problematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, and apparently as successful.

Strange to say, the child thrived.  Perhaps the invigorating climate of the mountain camp was compensation for maternal deficiencies.  Nature took the foundling to her broader breast.  In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foot-hills—­that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating—­he may have found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted asses’ milk to lime and phosphorus.  Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good nursing, “Me and that ass,” he would say, “has been father and mother to him!  Don’t you,” he would add, apostrophizing the helpless bundle before him, “never go back on us.”