day-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in the Sierras - with four faro tables running day and night - the pines seemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories. Jackass Hill is fairly honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels. I was surprised to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospect work going forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses to which ropes were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old camp showed signs of a new lease of life. Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into serious difficulty. Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon, I abandoned the main road for an alleged "cut-off." This I was following with the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it came to an abrupt end at the foot of a steep hill. In the ravine below was a house, and there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "Carson Flat." "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "How much?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles." This in a tone that implied that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However, with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail which, winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson Flat and joined the main road. And there I registered a vow: "The hard highway for me!" As a consequence of this deviation, I materially lengthened the distance to Angel's. It is thirty miles from Tuolumne by the road, to which, by taking the "cut-off," I probably added another three! It is surprising how these towns grow upon one. Already the Angel's Hotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined the loungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairs 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.