Volume 001-1 - March 1948 (2 pages)

March 15, 1948 April Meetings Mr. H. P. Davis, noted author and historian, will be the guest speaker of the Historical Society, Monday, April 12th, at 8:00 P.M., in the upstairs banquet room of the National Hotel, Nevada City. Mr, Davis has written numerous books, among them “Black Democracy,” the story of Haiti, which is widely used in most of our Universities. He has written feature articles for many leading magazines as the Reader's Digest and Outlook, as well as being a special correspondent of the Associated Press. At the present time he is making his home in Nevada City, and is preparing an historical review of the gold countries, entitled “Gold Rush Days in the Northern Mines.” Also in preparation is an historical map of Nevada City with chronological notes. Members of the Historical Society are looking forward to his talk on the economic significance in the history of this county of ancient auciferious river channels, the source of most of the gold found in modern streams and first disclosed in the Coyote Diggings above Nevada City. The hotel management is offering an Historical Special Plate on the menu for this night, priced at 85c, and anyone wishing to have dinner may stop in at the National Hotel Coffee Shop before the talk upstairs. + + On Saturday, April 17th, the College of the Pacific is conducting a tour of its history and mining studerits, under the Foundation of California History. Dr. Rockwell D. Hunt is the director, and H. P. Davis and Elmer Stevens will be guides. The tour will begin after a luncheon at the Methodist Church in Grass Valley at 12:00 P-M., and will extend to the Omega Mine above Nevada City. Anyone wishing to attend should contact Elmer Stevens, Phone Grass Valley 664-W. + + On Sunday, April 25th, Mr. Herbert Nile, and O. P. Renner will conduct an excursion to Camp Far West, where Dedication Ceremonies have been arranged for placing a plaque on the monument there with the names of the known military dead inscribed upon it. Members will remember General James R. N. Weaver sending $50.00 to the Nevada County Historical Society from the Camp Beale Ordinance Fund for this plaque. Details of the excursion will be given later in the local newspapers, + + HISTORICAL NOTES For one’s personal files. THE OLD CHINESE OF PLACER MINING DAYSA MEMORY. Like hundreds of other early day placer carps and town, the Chinese of the one I remember best-: -were of the same pattern, or cross section. They had their bands their celebrations of the Chinese New Yeer along about February, their opium dens and their gambling places. They had their China gardens with the accompanying odors, but a pretty good variety of vegetables at that—and decidedly cheap in price. They had their good and the bad, the sluice box robbers and chicken thieves along with the kind-hearted philanthropists and those of high regard and loyalty to their white brethren who may have shown them kindnesses. I was possibly more fortunate than most lads of the community, as our large backyard butted onto our Chinatown and the fascination for the old-time Chinese was early instilled in my childhood mind. In fact, years after, on a vacation home from school, after my white greetings, some of my pals and I visited Chinatown one evening. “Lin Qui Toy"”—"Qwa Dow Toy” being the limit of my Chinese vocabulary. I heard the terms being used in the conversation amongst the gathering. I asked one of the Chinese present to tell me what they were talking about. China Mary was telling them how I, as a baby, would be taken by my mother down to the old hammock under the pear tree in the backyard and how at times China Mary would hold me in her arms. The very secretiveness of their lives, or so it seemed to us, was always intriguing. Very little light in the way of doors and windows as let into their dwellings. Crowded quarters were the custom and groups of Chinese would gather in one small room to talk, smoke or maybe read the Chinese newspaper, “Chung Sai Yet Po,” published in San Francisco. Very little oxygen would be present as they shunned fresh air after their outdoor labors. Yet little comfort was taken when in the outdoors. Their kitchens for cooking and even for eating would be cold and draughty. The rooms the bunks were in for smoking their opium pipes were certainly dark and furtive. Probably to enhance the visions. Well, I know of nothing to this day even, that has struck me as to their furtiveness. The tiny flames from the China nut oil lamps used to fry the opium, the dense volume of smoke, the peculiar odor of it all. In memory I still can see it, smell it and shiver. There was an addict who placed the pipe end in his nostril, inhale deeply for a faster “kick"— one who by opinion was destined to lose his mind or would shortly die. Then there was the China band. What a racket, and emulated by we youngsters. Oh yes, we had our China band. We had to take in a couple of girls though to help in the noise. My instrument was an upturned pickle tub for the drum, and the hours I spent in perfecting my art! Many night in my bed, I have awakened and heard the crash of the cymbals, hugh thirty-inch affairs of brass; heard the peculiar thythm of the drum, a hide placed tightly over an empty keg-like affair, and beaten with great dexterity with two sticks. The deep BONG-G-Gof the copper gong. The high shrill squeals of their oboe-like instrument. The stringed instrument was out. No artist being adept apparently that could pick and shovel and pan, and still have the pliable fingers to strum an instrument. Just as well though, as the din and racket were well made up by the other instruments. Years and years afterwards, I witnessed a Chinese funeral in San Francisco’s Chinatown. A white man’s band led the cortege. The China band brought up the rear. I fallowed the Chinese band. The fascination of the old-time Chinese to me was further brought about by that “dead pan” look on his face, In looking at the “mirror of the soul” you just got nowhere, Any more than looking into the eyes of a snake. You never could tell just what was running in the mind of the individual. You never knew what he thought. Excellent poker players? They never made them better.

March 15, 1948 April Meetings Mr. H. P. Davis, noted author and historian, will be the guest speaker of the Historical Society, Monday, April 12th, at 8:00 P.M., in the upstairs banquet room of the National Hotel, Nevada City. Mr, Davis has written numerous books, among them “Black Democracy,” the story of Haiti, which is widely used in most of our Universities. He has written feature articles for many leading magazines as the Reader's Digest and Outlook, as well as being a special correspondent of the Associated Press. At the present time he is making his home in Nevada City, and is preparing an historical review of the gold countries, entitled “Gold Rush Days in the Northern Mines.” Also in preparation is an historical map of Nevada City with chronological notes. Members of the Historical Society are looking forward to his talk on the economic significance in the history of this county of ancient auciferious river channels, the source of most of the gold found in modern streams and first disclosed in the Coyote Diggings above Nevada City. The hotel management is offering an Historical Special Plate on the menu for this night, priced at 85c, and anyone wishing to have dinner may stop in at the National Hotel Coffee Shop before the talk upstairs. + + On Saturday, April 17th, the College of the Pacific is conducting a tour of its history and mining studerits, under the Foundation of California History. Dr. Rockwell D. Hunt is the director, and H. P. Davis and Elmer Stevens will be guides. The tour will begin after a luncheon at the Methodist Church in Grass Valley at 12:00 P-M., and will extend to the Omega Mine above Nevada City. Anyone wishing to attend should contact Elmer Stevens, Phone Grass Valley 664-W. + + On Sunday, April 25th, Mr. Herbert Nile, and O. P. Renner will conduct an excursion to Camp Far West, where Dedication Ceremonies have been arranged for placing a plaque on the monument there with the names of the known military dead inscribed upon it. Members will remember General James R. N. Weaver sending $50.00 to the Nevada County Historical Society from the Camp Beale Ordinance Fund for this plaque. Details of the excursion will be given later in the local newspapers, + + HISTORICAL NOTES For one’s personal files. THE OLD CHINESE OF PLACER MINING DAYSA MEMORY. Like hundreds of other early day placer carps and town, the Chinese of the one I remember best-: -were of the same pattern, or cross section. They had their bands their celebrations of the Chinese New Yeer along about February, their opium dens and their gambling places. They had their China gardens with the accompanying odors, but a pretty good variety of vegetables at that—and decidedly cheap in price. They had their good and the bad, the sluice box robbers and chicken thieves along with the kind-hearted philanthropists and those of high regard and loyalty to their white brethren who may have shown them kindnesses. I was possibly more fortunate than most lads of the community, as our large backyard butted onto our Chinatown and the fascination for the old-time Chinese was early instilled in my childhood mind. In fact, years after, on a vacation home from school, after my white greetings, some of my pals and I visited Chinatown one evening. “Lin Qui Toy"”—"Qwa Dow Toy” being the limit of my Chinese vocabulary. I heard the terms being used in the conversation amongst the gathering. I asked one of

the Chinese present to tell me what they were talking about. China Mary was telling them how I, as a baby, would be taken by my mother down to the old hammock under the pear tree in the backyard and how at times China Mary would hold me in her arms. The very secretiveness of their lives, or so it seemed to us, was always intriguing. Very little light in the way of doors and windows as let into their dwellings. Crowded quarters were the custom and groups of Chinese would gather in one small room to talk, smoke or maybe read the Chinese newspaper, “Chung Sai Yet Po,” published in San Francisco. Very little oxygen would be present as they shunned fresh air after their outdoor labors. Yet little comfort was taken when in the outdoors. Their kitchens for cooking and even for eating would be cold and draughty. The rooms the bunks were in for smoking their opium pipes were certainly dark and furtive. Probably to enhance the visions. Well, I know of nothing to this day even, that has struck me as to their furtiveness. The tiny flames from the China nut oil lamps used to fry the opium, the dense volume of smoke, the peculiar odor of it all. In memory I still can see it, smell it and shiver. There was an addict who placed the pipe end in his nostril, inhale deeply for a faster “kick"— one who by opinion was destined to lose his mind or would shortly die. Then there was the China band. What a racket, and emulated by we youngsters. Oh yes, we had our China band. We had to take in a couple of girls though to help in the noise. My instrument was an upturned pickle tub for the drum, and the hours I spent in perfecting my art! Many night in my bed, I have awakened and heard the crash of the cymbals, hugh thirty-inch affairs of brass; heard the peculiar thythm of the drum, a hide placed tightly over an empty keg-like affair, and beaten with great dexterity with two sticks. The deep BONG-G-Gof the copper gong. The high shrill squeals of their oboe-like instrument. The stringed instrument was out. No artist being adept apparently that could pick and shovel and pan, and still have the pliable fingers to strum an instrument. Just as well though, as the din and racket were well made up by the other instruments. Years and years afterwards, I witnessed a Chinese funeral in San Francisco’s Chinatown. A white man’s band led the cortege. The China band brought up the rear. I fallowed the Chinese band. The fascination of the old-time Chinese to me was further brought about by that “dead pan” look on his face, In looking at the “mirror of the soul” you just got nowhere, Any more than looking into the eyes of a snake. You never could tell just what was running in the mind of the individual. You never knew what he thought. Excellent poker players? They never made them better.