A California Tramp and Later Footprints: Or, Life on the Plains and in the Golden State Thirty Years Ago, with Miscellaneous Sketches in Prose and Verse

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Philadelphia, Press of Globe printing house, 1888 - Agriculture - 415 pages
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Thaddeus S. Kenderdine made his way from Philadelphia to Michigan in 1858, staying only a month before he determined to head to California. He remained for only a year, returning to New York in 1859. A California tramp (1888) describes Kenderdine's adventures in 1858-1859: his trip west as a driver on a California wagon train, visits to San Francisco and life as tramp and ranch hand in Sonoma County. His memoir closes with his return via Panama in 1859. The last quarter of the book is a miscellany of Kenderdine's prose and poetry. Kenderdine's association with California was renewed almost forty years later when he made a second trip west; see his California revisited (1898).

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Page 338 - The only man who didn't back down When the rebels rode through his native town: But held his own in the fight next day, When all his townsfolk ran away.
Page 335 - That the throb of this chivalrous prairie boy's heart Was an answering stroke of my own ! I knew him, I tell you ! And also, I knew When he fell on the battle-swept ridge, That the poor battered body that lay there in blue Was only a plank in the bridge Over which some should pass to...
Page 61 - It was a hardly fought contest, but the skill of the Americans at last prevailed over the superior numbers of the enemy. The Cheyennes were entirely routed, with the loss of two hundred of their number and all their tents and baggage, which were burned in a huge bonfire by the victors. Their squaws were taken prisoners, and distributed among our gallant soldiers, but were afterwards given up to their lawful owners. The severe castigation which the Cheyennes here received has humbled them greatly,...
Page 60 - Near the mouth of Ash Hollow we passed a mail station, near which was encamped a village of Cheyennes. The little naked children crowded around us as we passed by the lodges, whilst the old squaws, squatted around their domiciles, gazed quietly at us through their black, snaky eyes, looking quite as attractive as the fabled dames who guard the portals of the infernal regions.
Page 335 - On, out to the nameless who lie 'neath the gloom Of the pitying cypress and pine ; Your man is the man of the sword and the plume, But the man of the musket is mine.
Page 60 - ... rugged cliffs. It seemed as if some mighty volcano had once been at work here, blasting and desolating everything around in its upheavings. Slowly our weak, hollow oxen drew the cumbrous wagons through the yielding sands, which arose and enveloped us in clouds, as we trudged on our way unrejoicing. At last we emerged from this valley of desolation, and moving about a mile up the river, we encamped near its shore. A rush was soon made for the river by both man and beast, and its warm, yellow waters...
Page 273 - I saw her in the trying light of day standing — leaning from a sort of inside balcony above the bar-room — like another Juliet, or rather like the grandmother of that interesting young woman, although on her face paint, powder and paste had done their work, until she looked like a flamboyant fright: an exemplification of the conflict we are warring with time...
Page 60 - Near this spot a battle was fought a year before between the Cheyennes and the Americans under General Harney. The fortifications erected by the latter could still be seen on the flat extending between the bluff and the river. One of our men who had been an eye-witness of the fight gave us a graphic description of it. It was a hard fought contest, but the skill of the Americans at last prevailed over the superior numbers of the enemy.
Page 274 - ... note, but who, on account of loss of personal attractions rather than of professional ability, had been obliged to leave more aristocratic boards for this humble theatre. Enterprising, if old and faded, she had managed her "Gaieties...
Page 399 - ... And tottering is its wall, And silent and still is the old water-wheel, All clasped in time's enthrall. Hark, how the mill-stones rumble As the golden grain leaps through, List to the clattering "damsel" Shaking the aguish " shoe;" Swiftly is gliding the belting, The cogs whirl round in a maze, And with mute surprise in my juvenile eyes, I wondering stand and gaze. There stands the miller musing On the ups and downs of — corn ; His form appears bowed down with years And the weighty sacks he's...

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