Bret Harte Union High School - Sierra Vista Yearbook (Angels Camp, CA)

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Tales of Town and- Trail PP av VP Melones I stood one recent night on a bridge whose concrete arches span the Stanislaus River, at a point where that stream at certain seasons remains no longer a river, but where its waters pile up a storehouse from which are drawn power for the lowlands and water to irrigate a thirsty valley. I leaned on the rough wall of this bridge and saw reflected in the shim- mering face of the river a million stars of heaven, and twinkling across and amongst them other stars, man-made, which light a stamp mill on the hill- side above the bridge, electric lights of an old and famous mine, long dark. I listened to the steady pounding of the stamps, throbbing so potently in the breast of a tiny valley, which had been quiet for years. Of myself and the river and the million stars, I asked, What is it then that brings life here once more, where but a short time since all the houses were empty, the town all but deserted, and the nights very, very still ? My reply came quickly, but from whence, I cannot say. Perhaps the stamps spelled out the answer. Maybe a bright flicker of stars and twin- kling lights and lapping water gave me a telling hint. It might even be that I knew e'er I asked the question. The answer is the magic word Gold. Gold, the very life-blood of these hills. Magnetic gold, that drew men here in a rougher time, when the arched bridge was unthought of and when only stars and the hushed glovg of camp fires were reflected nightly in the Stanislaus. Gold, the pass- wor - I closed my eyes, I opened them to find myself carried back year by year to the very birth of this spot's history: a few rough shacks along the river, a tent or so, some scattered lights on higher ground, as of glowing lanterns, at the nearer camps, men visible seated around their bonfires or busy preparing a belated meal, rude beds laid down in the open, some already occupied, rockers and long-toms suspended from bush or tent-rope, an occasional shirt or pair of sox, some miner's weekly wash, the fleeting aroma of coffee on the air, a hearty laugh, a rough song, and through it all a faint murmur of mixed voices in several tongues. It was all very natural, very familiar, as though I had been there many times before. Was I then part of this and this part of me? I struggled to free myself of some spell. With a desperate effort I recalled the password: Gold-the magic worker. With a jerk I roused myself. Again I was standing on the bridge. The stars hung low and mingled their glitter with that of yellow lights from the hillside above. The meandering Stanislaus flashed and sparkled. Around and through me the clump, clump of the stamps echoed. I was back in 1934. The same factor which brought life, wealth and fame to the hills of Calaveras County in the late forties and years following is again playing an important role in the rehabilitation of a depressed generation. Gold-the magic word-using its power to instill new life into a stricken country. Gold-spelling the salvation of labor to many, putting food in their mouths, rings on their fingers, and gas in their automobiles. CARMEN TINDALL '34, ---ef 33 lar-