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,