The brushy canon we have just described is now occupied by the
Southern Pacific Railroad, and the steep and narrow ridge pierced by a
tunnel, through which the trains pass. The beautiful meadow we so much
admired has now upon its border a railroad station, Newhall, and at the
proper season some portion of it is covered with thousands of trays of
golden apricots, grown in the luxuriant orchards just beyond the hills
toward the coast, and here drying in the bright summer sun. The cattle
in the parti-colored coats are gone, but one who knows the ground can
see our picture.
Loaded up again we start down the beautiful grassy valley, the women
each with a staff in hand, and everything is new and strange to us.
Rogers and I know that we will soon meet people who are strangers to us;
who speak a strange language of which we know nothing, and how we,
without a dollar, are to proceed to get our food and things we need, are
questions we cannot answer nor devise any easy way to overcome. The
mines are yet five hundred miles away, and we know not of any work for
us to do nearer. Our lives have been given back to us, and now comes the
problem of how to sustain them manfully and independently as soon as
possible. If worse comes to worst we can walk to San Francisco, probably
kill enough game on the way and possibly reach the gold mines at last,
but the way was not clear. We must trust much to luck and fortune and
the ever faithful Providence which rarely fails those who truly try to
help themselves.
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