GOLD HILL : : : FRIDAY, AUG. 3, 1877



Gold Hillers and Other Comstockers–Parkinsonian–Shakespearian–Tarry Toplights–Old Neptune–Moonlight and romance–Captain Dick's Ghost–A Cow Tale–A Dog Tale–A Shipwreck on Land–Kuklux–One Hundred Schoolmarms Coming–Grizzle Bear Shooting–Etc.


Still infesting that beautiful locality. He met "Old Parkie" himself at Glenbrook, together with his wife and little boy. He was just shipping them off on the stage home to Carson, and seemed happy at the idea, for says he slyly aside, "I'm going to stop and have a little old jamboree around the lake on my own hook."


After a good dinner at the Lake-Shore House, kept by Major Cobb, Spykens and his fellow-travelers, on board the steamer Niagara musingly picked their teeth as that gallant craft swept nimble out of Glenbrook cove. Captain Avery and the good-looking Bigham were trying to show some of the tourists the portrait bust of Shakespeare on the side of the famous bluff near by, known as "Shakespeare's rock."

"There, don't you see it now? It's just to the right of the center; big whitish spot below the rest of the whitish part. He's looking toward the lake, you see."

"Oh yes! now I see it. Plain enough when you get the thing fixed right in yer mind. Don't you see it, Maria?"

"Law me, that's so. Ain't it delightful to have Mr. Shakespeare's picter so artistically engrafted on the broad tablet of that romantic cliff. It reminds me of Moses on Mount Sinai."

"H–ll!" growled a practical old Carsonite who had just succeeded in seeing it. "Shakespeare be d–-d; it looks like old Parkinson"

And so it does.

Some seemed to think it looked like Hand Monk, with a clean dickey on, but before the thing was definitely settled the steamer was across the lake and at


Here troops of happy children were playing among the pebbles and dirt along the shore, or paddling in the water, ladies sat under the shade of the green fir trees, and festive men, dressed in all sorts of easy and unstylish rigs, were enjoying themselves boat sailing, fishing, laying off in the shade or doing generally just as they pleased. There was Pratt the stock broker, whom everybody thought to be anything but a water god, cruising about in a sail boat and turned into a regular old salt, an old tarry toplight, a gray-bearded old Neptune. Then there was Tom Gallagher, divested of his usual style as a wood and coal merchant, heavy freight hauler, etc., and, like Pratt, returned to his former or normal condition as a golly old Jack tar; an old rope-yarn. All the houses and rooms were occupied and tents of "campers" were on the hillside near by. The great majority of the people were from Gold Hill, and here Spykens found himself perfectly at home.


That evening about 9 o'clock the Niagara came up from Tahoe City and touched at the wharf with an excursion party on board going to Emerald Bay. Quite a number of McKinney's guests, including the gay and gallant John himself, joined the excursion, and away they went. The bright yellow moon beamed in full glory diagonally across the bright glimmering lake, the wild waves rippled in jolly conversation beneath the bow and stern, there was music, singing and sparking in the little cabin, and Adam Gillespie and Dave Morgan danced a barn-door jig on the poop deck. A merrier crew never entered the gloriously romantic Emerald Bay. They landed on Ben. Holliday's beautiful property, took a look at the cascade and other points of interest, had a nice time generally, and were back at McKinney's before midnight was long past.


All who are familiar with Lake Tahoe and its past years, will remember "Captain Dick." He was an ancient mariner, and for a long time was in charge of Ben Holliday's possessions at Emerald Bay. He lived there through verdant Summers and dreary snow-piled Winter; took care of the pretty cottage, the outbuildings, the boats and things, and was happy. One stormy, wintry night, nearly four years ago, he sailed from Glenbrook cove in his trusty sail-boat, bound for his home across the lake. Regardless of the warning advice of friends, he dashed out to ride the white-capped, wildly-surging billows, and passed from sight forever. Broken remnants of his boat were found afterward on the lee shore, but Captain Dick's body went away down into the deep blue depths of the beautiful lake, which never warms, never freezes, and never gives up its dead.

It was Friday night–two weeks ago to-night–that some of the Gold Hillers from McKinney's were up to Emerald Bay. "Sailor Jack," who now has charge of the Holliday property, kindly entertained them, and allowed them to sleep that night in the cottage. Doc. Conwell and Fred. Nichol occupied the bed formerly belonging to Captain Dick, and the other boys slept up stairs. It was the hour of midnight, when all well-regulated graveyards are supposed to yawn. The waning moon shed a broad, consumptive light around, and all seemed quiet and peaceful. Suddenly something aroused the sleepers, and there, by the pale white light of the moon, they saw Captain Dick standing at the window, sadly looking in. The old fellow was dressed in that same old flannel shirt and slouched hat, with his pants tucked in his boots, and they knew him at once.

"On! my poor wife," groaned the conscience-stricken Fred. Nichol, who is County Clerk.

"G-g-g-o a-a-way." chattered Conwell, who is a dentist, and his teeth drummed double tattoos against each other, keeping time to the shaking of his knees, but he could not help glaring at the dreadful apparition.

Slowly it leaned forward in through the open window, reached for a whisky bottle on the table, tipped it up to his mouth, found it empty, and sadly put it back. Then the old salt hitched up his pants, placed his starboard thumb to the weather side of his nose, gently twiddled his fingers, and the planking of the porch creaked beneath his tread as he walled off. The boys up stairs heard him come up, but they had nothing worth a ghost's attention about them. They threw an empty bottle after him as he disappeared in the shade of the big bushes, but he never even stopped to pick it up.


Mrs. Keen and Mrs. Lowrey, both Gold Hill ladies, are keeping the famous place of resort known as the Soda Springs, about a dozen miles southwest of McKinney's. They bought a cow at the lake a few days ago, and Adam Gillespie, who wanted to visit the Springs, gallantly volunteered to escort that cow along. The rash youth never undertook a worse job, never. He put about thirty feet of rope to her horns to lead her along with, and started out.

The cow started out first, and very vigorously.

Adam described a double somersault in the air, and landed thirty feet the other side of the cow.

Then the cow went round three times at the end of the rope, like a circus horse, with Adam in the middle like a ringmaster.

Then she struck out for the Soda Springs.

Adam has as long legs as any two men in Gold Hill, but if he hadn't held fast to the end of the rope he never could have kept pace with that cow.

She ran five miles without stopping, and so did Adam–bareheaded.

Adam swore he would follow her to the Sandwich Islands if the rope didn't give out.

Then the cow changed her mind and started back for the lake, Adam snubbing her around every tree he could find until he got back to his hat which she wouldn't allow him to pick up.

Then the cow changed her tactics, tacked ship and sailed for the Springs again, beating up every raving on each side, sometimes she in the lead and sometimes Adam in the lead.

He got through to the Spring just thirty feet ahead of the cow, hatless, bootless, ragged, dilapidated and unconquered, but the tiredest man in America.


Buckmaster never realized what a faithful and trusty animal his dog "Trib" was until he returned from the Emerald Bay moonlight excursion the other night. When they got back to McKinney's, Buck and some of the other Gold Hillers who were camping with him, went up to their tent on the hillside. Some animal broke out through the back end of the tent and made for the bushes. They found it was Trib. waking out of a sound sleep he was too much frightened to bark, but he wagged his tail and whined with joy when he found that he was safe.


"Old Parkie," otherwise Deacon Parkinson, of the Carson Tribune, succeeded in distinguishing himself at last. After his wife left the lake he went around visiting his friends. He finally wound up his exploits at Tahoe City, by starting for Truckee on horseback. It was a kind, gentle animal, and ladies and children were in the habit of riding it every day. The old tar put his larboard foot in the stirrup and made a sort of a climb, like going up over the futtock shrouds into the mizzen top. Then he gave a sort of sway back on the tiller-ropes to bring the craft round, and was astonished to find everything caught aback and going down stern-foremost. The horse was thrown on his beam-ends, and the Deacon let go the capstan and rolled overboard down the bank. He was picked up very little damaged, and they tried to get him to mount the steed again, but no. "What the bloody blazes is the use," says he; "an old sailor hasn't got any business a horseback."


Passing around the head of the lake, on his way home, when the Niagara touched at "Yanks," Spykens' attention was called to a lady on the wharf. She was of fine figure and handsome hair, but she wore a mask of black silk, with holes cut for her eyes, nose and mouth. The effect was anything but pleasing, and had it not been for the presence of Judge Rising and lady, and other acquaintances from Virginia and Gold Hill, who were stopping there, Spykens might have become timid. He saw other ladies with masks made of white gauze, etc., while at the lake, but that was the only regular Lucrezia Borgia, stiletto kuklux mask that he happened to see. It is a noticeable fact, however, that none but the homeliest women wear these masks to preserve and protect their complexion. Good looking women do not need them.


For the past month the population at the lake, both permanent and transient, has been excited by the news that 100 schoolmarms from California were coming to the lake for a few days' rest and recreation. They are coming from San Francisco, Sacramento and other parts of the State, it is said, and they are to arrive on the 7th instant–next Tuesday. They will rendezvous first at the Grand Central Hotel, Tahoe City, and afterward they propose camping at McKinney's and other eligible points around the lake. Quite a number of schoolmasters from Gold Hill and Virginia are already there to meet them and be gallant, and there are more marrying men gathering in at the lake than ever before known of.


Hank Jewett, the well-known painter of Gold Hill, shot a grizzly bear while on his way to the Soda Springs from McKinney’s a few days ago. Bank is having the skin made into a fancy vest for Sunday wear.

There are many people at the lake at present, both Eastern tourists and people from California as well as many from the Comstock.

The Grand Central Hotel at Tahoe City is headquarters for the bon ton and everybody else. Bailey sets a first class table, and he is deservedly well patronized. The "Custom House," on the wharf, is also a very lively institution, and Campbell & Forbes are doing a good business. They have more friends than anybody.

Hot springs, McKinney's and Yank's receive a full share of public patronage, and various other places entertain many more visitors. In fact anywhere about the lake one cannot well avoid finding abundance of recreation, health and thorough enjoy

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