There below, basking in the
last red rays of the rapidly setting sun lay the storied metropolis of
Hangtown. A small tormented creek meandered through a series of deep,
pine-lined ravines, and clinging tenaciously to each bank, at close intervals
and in no apparent order, squatted several dozen shake roofed structures
reminiscent of the clapboard shanties that graced the Irish community back
home. Smoke boiled and billowed from a forest of stovepipes, and the sound of
kindling being chopped, rang at intervals from a series of locations and echoed
from the ravine beyond. In addition to the rustic, wooden framed structures
were numerous log cabins, and on the periphery of the settlement and lining
Main Street on either side, an endless sea of tents glowed hospitably from the
lamplight within. The oak scented smoke
of countless campfires hung thick in the motionless evening air, and the entire
hollow twinkled in the light of countless lamps and flickering candles. Laughter and jocularity rose spasmodically
from a number of well lit gatherings down below, and a melancholy rendition of
“Little Annie Laurie” scratched out hesitantly on a pair of slightly flat
fiddles, rose plaintively from a massive canvas covered structure in the center
of the scene. This was evidently the heart of downtown. Main Street, lined on
each side with false storefronts, dropped in a gentle grade from the east;
widening and splitting as it approached a long row of canvas covered
shops. At the east end of this row of
shops stood a bell tower as high as any building in town. Main Street proceeded west, past a number of
dimly lit, but well patronized saloons and Center Street led quickly toward a
row of barns and stables, which faced the rear of the shops to their south and
hung precariously over the banks of scenic Hangtown Creek to the north. It all
brings to mind the old poem: “Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, be
it ever so humble, there’s no place like home”.
SC
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