old fellow whose purple-tinted nose plainly indicated that he had devoted
a good part of his existence to the business of getting himself "full
as a tick" every time he ran across the chance.

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