Four hundred of these people will sit and stare at each other for half an hour, and all the time wish they could talk with some one. And many of these people are so meeting, so crossing, so staring, and so longing to talk year in and year out. There is no doctor’s shop where the impromptu symposium meets daily in the back room, as ours did at Doc Lampson’s in Montezuma, or Baker’s in Jamestown, or Dr. Walker’s in Sonora. There’s no reception every evening at the Camp grocery as there used to be at “Bill Brown’s” in Montezuma. There’s no lawyer’s office, when he feels privileged to drop in as we did at Judge Preston’s in Jamestown, or Judge Quint’s in Sonora. There’s no printing office and editorial room all in one on the ground floor whereinto the “Camp Senate,” lawyer, Judge, doctor, merchant and other citizens may daily repair in the summer’s twilight, tilted back in the old hacked arm chairs on the front portico, and discuss the situation as we used to with A. N. Francisco of the _Union Democrat_ in Sonora, and as I presume the relics of antiquity and “’49” do at that same office to-day. These are a few of the features which made “Camp” attractive. These furnished the social anticipations which lightened our footsteps over those miles of mountain, gulch, and flat. Miles are nothing, distance is nothing, houses a mile apart and “Camps” five miles apart are nothing when people you know and like live in those camps and houses at the end of those miles. An evening at the Bella Union saloon in “Jimtown” was a circus. Because men of individuality, character, and originality met there. They had something to say. Many of them had little to do, and, perhaps, for that very reason their minds the quicker took note of so many of those little peculiarities of human nature, which when told, or hinted, or suggested prove the sauce piquant to conversation.