She was born in San Francisco, and had not seen any snow
up to the time when she was three years old. Her parents were
coming east with her on a railroad train, which runs over about
the same ground that we were on at the time I was there with Col.
Elliott. Awakening in the morning in a sleeping-car on top of the
Sierras, the little one looked out, and seeing the vast fields of
whiteness, she exclaimed: "Do look, mamma; the world is covered
with sugar."
As we ascended the mountains the snow became so deep in a little
while that we were forced to camp. The next morning the herders
were directed to take the stock ahead in order to tramp down the
snow to make a trail, but in four miles it became so deep that it
was impossible to proceed further in that manner, and then the
Colonel detailed fifty men to shovel snow, but having only a few
shovels, wooden ones were made that answered the purpose, and
while we were shoveling, the horses were also frequently driven
back and forth over the trail, and in three days we had a passable
road for the wagons.
At the end of the three days we reached the edge of the snow on
the opposite side of the mountains, and there being a beautiful
camping ground and the first night out of the snow for some time,
the luxury of it was fully appreciated by all hands.
On a pine tree here I again saw signs of my old friend, Jim
Beckwith, for there was written: "Twenty miles to Beckwith's
Hotel.
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