In the early days of gold hunting in California, many young men of religious proclivities, who had been reared by Christian parents, went there to make speedy fortunes and return home. Failing to do so, unwilling to work, and still intent upon suddenly acquiring wealth, they have wandered from camp to camp among the mountains ever since. These mining vagabonds are often met with. Their lives have been full of vicissitude and disappointment, and nature has covered them with signs and labels, which render their character unmistakable. Lost to all self-respect, ragged, uncombed, often covered with vermin, they seem to have no definite object in life, and are content to earn enough to eke out a meagre subsistence. Sometimes we meet with one, who betrays in the glow of conversation the remains of a cultivated foreground; but generally the slang of the camp and the rough manners of the miner have wrought a radical transformation in both mind and body. Such an one was Bill—with whom I first became acquainted in 1863. Passing Mather’s saloon, one day in the Fall of 1872, I caught a glimpse of him, and stepped in to renew my acquaintance. He stood by the bar talking with a friend whom he had known at Boise City, Idaho, in 1862. The conversation had reference to those early days. “Jim,” he inquired, “when did you hear of Yeast Powder Dave last?” A little farther on in the conversation, after taking a drink, Jim inquired in return, “Whatever became of Tin Cup Joe?” Then the conversation flagging, another drink was indulged, and the inquiry followed, “How late have you heard where Six Toed Pete hangs out?” At last Bill, fully warmed up to the subject, remarked, “Jim, you haven’t forgot the parson, have you?” “Parson who?” inquired Jim dubiously. “Parson Crib—you know.” At the mention of the name, tears came into the eyes of both. It was evident the memory of the man was very pleasant. Bill continued, “Jim, they don’t have no such preachers nowadays as the parson was. These newcomers, most of ’em feel above us ’cause we wear ragged clothes, and then they are so slow and lamb-like, that their talks have little effect on such fellows as you and me; but the old parson used to rattle up the boys every clatter, and when he’d got through they’d think their chances of salvation were mighty slim. And he was such a good man, so charitable and so kind—and how beautifully and eloquently he would explain the Christian religion as he talked to us of our duties to the Master. He was a real good man. There ain’t many like him.” Brushing a tear from his cheek, he added sorrowfully, “Jim, do you know I never did quite forgive Sam Jones for shooting the parson, for stealing that sorrel mare.” It must have been a warm affection which would fail to approve of an act regarded so just as shooting or hanging for “cribbing” a horse in a mining camp. The parson is supposed to have held forth near Boise City.