His name was Jim Winters, and he lived on a little farm down the river, where he did a little cultivation of the soil, but spent much of his time acting as a fire warden, protecting the forests from careless hunters. One day Winters appeared in Portland and announced that he was going to quit the country and would make California his future home, and much regret was expressed by his friends over his decision. Jim Winters went to California, locating in the Sacramento Valley, near the little town of Vacaville, where he bought a small piece of land, and proceeded to put it in a state of cultivation. Although practically a farmer on a small scale, Jim Winters went about doing all the good he could, alleviating suffering and want as much as laid in his power. He was present at the sick bedside of friend or stranger, and Chinaman, Japanese or negro were, alike, his brothers, and would receive his care, if sick or in distress. He did not have much to go on, but what he possessed was freely given, and Winters made many friends in that little community. There was a Bible in the Winter's cabin and some curious friend, in looking it over, discovered that Jim's birthday was the 10th of September, and it was deemed that the proper thing to do to celebrate such an event would be to supply his larder and other wants by donations from among the friends he had made in the valley. Everybody seemed to have an offering to make and varied were the presents tendered. There was a smoking jacket from Mrs. Jones whose husband he had nursed during his last illness without compensation, there was a pair of slippers from Mrs. Smith, as a recognition of services rendered her father, a box of cigars from Wing Fat, a Chinaman to whom Winters had been kind, tea and coffee from Harra Alodsta, the young Japanese who had been nursed through the smallpox, and many others who came with presents until the little cabin was full to running over. The company gathered to pay their respects, and as each package was open for inspection, some merriment was caused by the curious presents which sometimes were offered. For instance, James Ladd tendered a present of a Boston bull pup, Mrs. Thompson gave a present of two small kittens, but it was not till a modest looking package offered by George Stroud was received that everybody was agog with expectancy. The package was wrapped up in true express style, indicating the donor was an adept in the art of proper wrapping. "What's in it?" was asked on all sides and many conjectures were made. "Looks like a package of music," said one. "It might be a new Bible, for it is paper and weighs heavy," ejaculated another, but all were disappointed. When the package was opened a lot of old papers tumbled out, in a more or less state of dissolution, some whole and some quite dilapidated. Everybody laughed, but seemed to regard the joke as a little untimely.