It was a peculiarity of the Carquinez Wood that it stood apart and
distinct in its gigantic individuality. Even where the integrity of its
own singular species was not entirely preserved, it admitted no inferior
trees. Nor was there any diminishing fringe on its outskirts; the
sentinels that guarded the few gateways of the dim trails were as
monstrous as the serried ranks drawn up in the heart of the forest.
Consequently, the red highway that skirted the eastern angle was bare
and shadeless, until it slipped a league off into a watered valley and
refreshed itself under lesser sycamores and willows. It was here the
newly born city of Excelsior, still in its cradle, had, like an infant
Hercules, strangled the serpentine North Fork of the American river,
and turned its life current into the ditches and flumes of the Excelsior
mines.

Newest of the new houses that seemed to have accidentally formed its
single, straggling street was the residence of the Rev. Winslow Wynn,
not unfrequently known as "Father Wynn," pastor of the First Baptist
church. The "pastorage," as it was cheerfully called, had the glaring
distinction of being built of brick, and was, as had been wickedly
pointed out by idle scoffers, the only "fireproof" structure in town.
This sarcasm was not, however, supposed to be particularly distasteful
to "Father Wynn," who enjoyed the reputation of being "hail fellow, well
met" with the rough mining element, who called them by their Christian
names, had been known to drink at the bar of the Polka Saloon while
engaged in the conversion of a prominent citizen, and was popularly said
to have no "gospel starch" about him. Certain conscious outcasts and
transgressors were touched at this apparent unbending of the spiritual
authority. The rigid tenets of Father Wynn's faith were lost in the
supposed catholicity of his humanity. "A preacher that can jine a man
when he's histin' liquor into him, without jawin' about it, ought to be