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desert--true. And surrounded on all sides by such prodigious mountains,
that when you gaze at them awhile,--and begin to conceive of their
grandeur--and next to feel their vastness expanding your soul--and
ultimately find yourself growing and swelling and spreading into a
giant--I say when this point is reached, you look disdainfully down upon
the insignificant village of Carson, and in that instant you are seized
with a burning desire to stretch forth your hand, put the city in your
pocket, and walk off with it.
As to churches, I believe they have got a Catholic one here, but like
that one the New York fireman spoke of, I believe "they don't run her
now:" Now, although we are surrounded by sand, the greatest part of
the town is built upon what was once a very pretty grassy spot; and
the streams of pure water that used to poke about it in rural sloth and
solitude, now pass through on dusty streets and gladden the hearts of
men by reminding them that there is at least something here that hath
its prototype among the homes they left behind them. And up "King's
Canon," (please pronounce canyon, after the manner of the natives,)
there are "ranches," or farms, where they say hay grows, and grass, and
beets and onions, and turnips, and other "truck" which is suitable for
cows--yes, and even Irish potatoes; also, cabbage, peas and beans.
The houses are mostly frame, unplastered, but "papered" inside with
flour-sacks sewed together, and the handsomer the "brand" upon the sacks
is, the neater the house looks. Occasionally, you stumble on a stone
house. On account of the dryness of the country, the shingles on
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