irs
tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel. And there I
dozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening when
the electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth and
beauty of the town, up and down the winding street.

On account of the great heat that even the dry purity of the Sierra
atmosphere could not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to be
content with reaching San Andreas, the county seat of Calaveras County,
fifteen miles north of Angel's.

Apart from its name, there is something about San Andreas that suggests
Mexico, or one's idea of pastoral California in the early days of the
American occupation. The streets are narrow and unpaved and during the
midday heat are almost deserted. Business of some sort there must be,
for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its own;
but there seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish whatever the
necessities of life demand. And I may state here parenthetically, that
perhaps the most impressive feature of all the old California mining
towns is their suggestion of calm repose. Each little community seems
sufficient unto itself and entirely satisfied with things as they are.
Not even in the Old World will you find places where the current of life
more placidly flows.

On the main street--and the principal street of all these towns is "Main
Street"--I had the good fortune to be introduced to Judge Ira H. Reed,
who came to Calaveras County in 1854, and has lived there ever since. He
told me that Judge Gottschalk, who died a few years ago at an advanced
age, was authority for the statement that Mark Twain got his "Jumping
Frog" story from the then proprietor of the Metropolitan Hotel, San
Andreas, who asserted that the incident actually occurred in his
bar-room. Twain, it is true, places the scene in a bar-room at Angel's,
but that is doubtless the author's license. Bret Harte calls Tuttletown,
"Tuttleville," and there never was a "Wingdam" stage.

That evening as I lay awake in my bedroom at the Metropolitan Hotel,
wondering by what person of note it had been occupied in the "good old
days," my attention was attracted to the musical tinkle of a cow-bell.
Looking out of the window, I beheld the strange spectacle of a cow
walking sedately down the middle of the street. No one was driving her,
no one paid her any attention beyond a casual glance, as she passed. The
cow, in fact, had simply come ho