Quite a different picture is presented by an industrious old Mexican, whom I happen to see away down in the bottom of a deep ravine, along which swiftly hurries a tiny stream.  He is diligently shovelling dirt into a rude sluice-box which he has constructed in the bed of the stream at a point where the water rushes swiftly down a declivity.  Setting my bicycle up against a rock, I clamber down the steep bank to investigate.  In tones that savor of anything but satisfaction with the result of his labor, he informs me that he has to work “most infernal hard” to pan out two dollars’ worth of “dust” a day.  “I have had to work over all that pile of gravel you see yonder to clean up seventeen dollars’ worth of dust,” further volunteered the old “greaser,” as I picked up a spare shovel and helped him remove a couple of bowlders that he was trying to roll out of his war.  I condole with him at the low grade of the gravel he is working, hope he may “strike it rich " one of these days, and take my departure.

Up here I find it preferable to keep the railway track, alongside of which there are occasionally ridable side-paths; while on the wagon roads little or no riding can be done on account of the hills, and the sticky nature of the red, clayey soil.  From the railway track near Newcastle is obtained a magnificent view of the lower country, traversed during the last three days, with the Sacramento River winding its way through its broad valley to the sea.  Deep cuts and high embankments follow each other in succession, as the road-bed is now broken through a hill, now carried across a deep gulch, and anon winds around the next hill and over another ravine.  Before reaching Auburn I pass through “Bloomer Cut,” where perpendicular walls of bowlders loom up on both sides of the track looking as if the slightest touch or jar would unloose them and send them bounding and crashing on the top of the passing train as it glides along, or drop down on the stray cycler who might venture through.  On the way past Auburn, and on up to Clipper Gap, the dry, yellow dirt under the overhanging rocks, and in the crevices, is so suggestive of " dust,” that I take a small prospecting glass, which I have in my tool-bag, and do a little prospecting; without, however, finding sufficient “color” to induce me to abandon my journey and go to digging.

Before reaching Clipper Gap it begins to rain; while I am taking dinner at that place it quits raining and begins to come down by buckets full, so that I have to lie over for the remainder of the day.  The hills around Clipper Gap are gay and white with chaparral blossom, which gives the whole landscape a pleasant, gala-day appearance.  It rains all the evening, and at night turns to heavy, damp snow, which clings to the trees and bushes.  In the morning the landscape, which a few hours before was white with chaparral bloom, is now even more white with the bloom of the snow.  My hostelry at Clipper