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.