The Ghost Town Testifies

By Adeline M. Conner

It gives me especial pleasure to accept an i,nvitation to this ,party given in honor of the Califoinia Lumber Merchant's eighth_birthday, and feeling that I must justify my presence by adding in some small degree to the success of the celebration, I have decided to tell a story about my little ghost town of the Sierras. I believe that to the dwellers in big roaring cities or bustling, modern towns this tale will at least present the elements of novelty and romance, and that the moral-for there is a moral-oh, well, I'11 let you draw your own conclusions about that.

In the very early fifties a tiny trading post was establshed on the San Juan Ridge, in the county of Nevada, California. About it were virgin stands of sugar pine, incense cedar, fir and oak, and soon a little sawmill was set up and the pioneers fell to the task of converting tall trees into usable lumber.

Ancient river beds, rich in auriferous gravels, were discovered in the immediate vicinity, and hydraulic mining on a limited and primitive scale became the order of the day. Witlr the passing of time and the rapid development of the great mines, Fortune smiled, and the little trading post became a town.

There could be, its founders thought, in all the fair green earth, no lovelier spot in which to build a town. It lay in a sheltered coin of the hills, with spicy forests marching down upon it, and clear, babbling brooks, fed by the snows of winter flowing through its midst. Far below in the deep, rock ribbed canyon of the Yuba, the river sang its vesper song to the stars, or gleamed, a silver thread through veils of pearl and amber mist when morning dawned above it.

And so they named it Sweetland in honor of one of its pioneers, and the young town grew and prospered. In time it came to boast a real hotel, a post office, several stores, two saloons (it rvas a mining town, you see), a cemetery on a sunny hill slope-though there was little use for thatand, pride of every citizen, a school house down in the hollow by the creek. A school house brave in its sparkling coat of white paint, adorned with green shutters, and surrounded by tall poplars with rustling leaves of green and silver that turned to burnished gold when autumn came to rule the land.

Among the pioneers who "ld.d in building this little Eingdom of the West was a man named John Isbister, a Scotchman, keen of eye, analytical of mind, a master builder. Coming to the isolated trading post in 1853, he immediately took a hand in the numerous activities of the community.

In the spring of 1864 he built for himself a home and to it brought his young bride, a New Yorkgirl, whose wit and cleverness caught his fancy and won his heart. Ten years later, having secured a beautiful ranch north of the , townsite, he reared a new home, which remains today, a I charming example of old time architecture, and withiir'it i spent many a happy year with his little family growing up ; around him.

In that same year of. 1874, in answer to a crying need of the hour, he built the school house of durable, selCcted ma- terials and the education of the young Sweetlandites began in earnest.

And so the town grew and prospered. Lovely homes nes.tled- under sp_reading oaks and towering pines, neat prcket fences enclosed gardens gay with flowers, orchards bloomed fairy-like in the spring iime, and in autumn bowed beneath their loads of luscious ripened fruit.

Mule teams, hauling supplies for the mines, came clanking. over the hill, accompanied by the tinkling of many bells, and the sharp crack of snake-like whips; t-he staee coach clattered into town in the late afternoon, bringing- visitors and news from the world outside; great monitois ioared inces-santly in the mines, and mighty blasts tore down the cliffs of gold bearing gravels and ihook the firm foundations of the hills. Scores of chattering Chinamen filed into town at "quittin' time", and occasioinally temperamental miners, teamsters, or lumbermen ran amuck aird demorrstrated the efficacy of pre-war beverages.

Sweetland was enjoying the hey-dly of her life, happiness and prosperity; but there was a cloud upon the horizon. The storm broke at length and with the filing of the injunction which banned hyilraulic mining in the-Sierras, dark days gloomed above the unhappy t6wn. Graduallv its inhabitants drifted away, in many-instances abandoriing the homes they had loved so well io the spirits of desolation and decay. Years passed until today the little smiling city that used to be is only one ofminy ghost towns that stand. in silence beside the fine new hilhivays of the West, and tell a mournful story to the passei-by of broken dreams, and empty, silent days.

Ng* why have I told this story? Well, because-if you should ever chance to find this fittle shattered town ind stop to. wander, for a time over its rain gullied streets, among its ruined landmarks, and through itJweed chocked gardens and orchards, you would, muJh to your surprise. find three old buildings (and three only) intict.

There is the little school house down in the hollow. brave this very_year in a new coat of glistening white paint, green shuttered and red roofed, calling withits sweet toned'bell to its present day group of seven children as insistently as.it did in days of_yore to the sixty or seventy hardy mountain youngsters who surged across its threshold.

Farther up the street (be sure to walk, you cannot drive over the rutted road) you will come. upon the home built !y John Isbister so many years ago for his New York bride. It is still habitable-still a home,-though in the long, lonely years since its construction it has reciived but a riodicurir oI care.

Then, on a beautiful ranch just north of the town stands the house he builded in L874 for himself and his loved ones. It -is .charmingly _lovely in its setting of forest trees, this old time home. It is still a home, and shelters under its roof-tree the descendants of its builder even unto the third generation.

The moral ? You have guessed it. "These buildings,,' you are saying, "were made of sturdy, and durable lumber, -the workmanship^was holest, and skillful, and the little ghost town of the Sierras bears silent testimony to these lacts, and pays continual tribute to one of California's honored pioneers, John Isbister, keen of eye, analytical of mind, a master, builder."

(KILN-DRIED or OTHER.WISE)