I had been leisurely retracing my steps from the mountains, and returning by the “Big Tree” road through the historic town of Murphy’s Camp--made famous by Bret Harte, and interesting to me because I had there spent several of the years of my childhood--arrived at the little town of Vallecito, where I intended to inspect some placer property. The ardent, coppery-red ball of the California sun was just descending behind the foothills to westward when I arrived at my destination, hence there was nothing to do save to make myself as comfortable as possible at the little ramshackle inn, “The Miner’s Rest,” and defer all thought of business until the morrow. Life in the foothills of the Sierras may be monotonous, but it has its pleasant features, not the least of which was the fare of the humble Miner’s Rest. I found that Mr. Jim Truesdell, the landlord, had not boasted when he said genially, “We ain’t much on style hereabouts, Mister, but you kin bet your bottom dollar our feed is just as good, an’ just as plenty as it is at the Frisco Palace; tho’ we ain’t braggin’ none about variety on our meenu kyards.” Having finished my supper, I lighted a cigar and strolled out upon the rude, tumble-down veranda of the little inn. Seating myself with my feet planted upon the railing and a book upon my lap, I proceeded to enjoy my smoke. Then--my book forgotten--I fell into the revery which the fragrant smoke wreaths of a good cigar and the glorious flame of a dying sun bring to him who is at peace with himself and his surroundings. More beautiful sunsets there may be than those of my native heath, but I have never seen but one that could in any way compare with them, and even there, in a harbor of far-off Guatemala, the conditions, save for the brilliant ocean rim below which the sun sank to sleep, were much the same. The mountains to the eastward of Vallecito recalled the Sierra Madre, of that distant alien land. There were the same fleecy clouds, illumined by the waning fire of the God of Day, reflecting colors that surely would have been the despair of the most ambitious brush, and floating with soft caress over the snow-capped peaks which, like grim and watchful sentinels, walled in the valley where nestled the little town. There was just breeze enough blowing to give a keen zest to the balm-laden air of the mountains--a feature which that ever to be remembered scene in the Bay of Ocos distinctly lacked, for ’twas a miniature hell down there, night or day.