* * * * * The latter part of the winter of 1860, and the early spring of 1861, will never be forgotten by the inhabitants of the Tuolumne valley. I certainly have reason to remember it as long as I may live. As I have already intimated, the spring freshets of the California valleys were a matter of yearly experience. The inhabitants had become accustomed to them and had usually been able to escape serious disaster, hence they had never quite realized what the elements could do at their worst. The winter had been a hard one; there had been an excessive rainfall, and reports from the mountain towns showed a greater amount of snow than had ever before been experienced in that region. When the mountain snows began to melt, therefore, and the terrific storms characteristic of the breaking up of the winter season came on, an enormous volume of water began pouring down into the valleys, which was as alarming as it was unprecedented. We had heard vague rumors of serious trouble in the valleys of the Sacramento and San Joaquin, and, as the Tuolumne had risen to a point hitherto unheard of, the oldest settlers became somewhat uneasy. Fearing lest the Tuolumne--which was fast becoming a raging torrent--might eventually become impassable, I saw that “Mrs. Jim,” as I used to call her, was well supplied with necessaries. I knew that the water rise would be of short duration--for so tradition had it--hence I was not uneasy about my interesting charges. The river had finally risen to a point nearly two feet beyond the highest water mark ever known; it then began to subside and we felt much easier--the end was apparently in sight. But we deceived ourselves most thoroughly. The people of Jacksonville, congratulating themselves on the beginning of the end of the greatest freshet in their experience, retired one night to sleep in fancied security, only to be rudely awakened the following morning by the surging of the waters of the Tuolumne against the very beds on which they slept. The water was seeking its revenge--a revenge that was soon to be fully accomplished. Within twenty-four hours there was but one safe point in the entire town--the high ground upon which stood the Tuolumne House. Practically every other building in town, save one, was washed away. One sturdy miner upon whom fortune had smiled, had built himself a pretty little cottage, which he determined to save. He passed a cable through a door and a window at the corner of the house, and guyed it to a huge tree upon a hill opposite. The cottage swung about at the end of the rope until the waters subsided, when the triumphant miner anchored it in a new location, this time on higher ground--the original site of his home having gently slipped into the river. But Nelson was an exception; his brother miners were not so fortunate.