The maiden is making her first sketch on American
soil--of the rope-ferry, with the boat on this side. She is seated in
perfect unconsciousness on an inverted pine box--empty, I trust--which
bears the startling announcement, in legible lettering on its side, that it
holds "500 smokeless nitro-powder cartridges." Now she looks up disgusted,
to see the boat swing off and slowly warp over to the other side. The
picturesque blocks and cables in the foreground have hopelessly changed
position, and continue changing; but she consoles herself by making
marginal notes of the passengers returning by the boat,--a six-horse
freight-team from Silver City, and a band of horses driven by two realistic
cow-boys from anywhere. The driver of the freight-team has a young wildcat
aboard, half starved, haggard, and crazed with captivity. He stops, and
pulls out his wretched pet. The cow-boys stop; everybody stops; they make
a ring, while the dogs of the ferry-house are invited to step up and
examine for themselves. The little cat spits and rages at the end of its
blood-stained rope. It is not a pretty show, and I am provoked with our men
for not turning their backs upon it.
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