Smith was one of the first settlers at Hawkins’ Bar; Smith could remember when it contained a voting population of nearly eight hundred souls; Smith knew every point on the river which had yielded richly; Smith could show you Gawley’s Point, where Gawley pitched his tent in ’49 and buried under it his pickle jars full of gold dust. The tradition of Hawkins was that Gawley used to keep a barrel of whiskey on free tap in his tent. And that in the fall of 1850 Gawley, warned by the experience of the previous rainy season, determined to lay in a winter’s stock of provisions. But Gawley’s ideas as to the proper quantities of food were vague. He had never before been a purveyor or provider on a larger scale than that of buying a week’s “grub” at the Bar store. He went to the trader and told him what he wanted. “Make out your order,” said the merchant. Gawley gave it to him verbally. “I guess,” said he, “I’ll have a sack of flour, ten pounds of bacon, ten of sugar, five of coffee, three of tea, a peck of beans, a bag of salt and--and--a barrel of whiskey!” In 1870 I made another pilgrimage to Hawkins’ Bar. Smith was gone. Nobody lived there. The fence of the camp graveyard was broken down. The wooden headboards were lying prone to the earth. Some were split in two and most of the inscriptions were being rapidly erased through the action of the sun and rain. But one house was standing. It was the cabin wherein had lived one Morgan Davis, the former custodian of the Hawkins’ Bar library. For as early as 1854 or ’55 the Hawkins’ Bar “boys” had clubbed their funds, sent down to San Francisco and there purchased a very respectable library. It was a good solid library, too, based on a full set of American Encyclopedias and Humboldt and Lyell, and from such and the like dispensers of heavy and nutritious mental food, rising into the lighter desserts of poetry and novels. As late as 1858 the “boys” were in the habit of replenishing their library with the latest published scientific works, novels, and magazines.