Nature had showered on it every wonderful gift in her lap.
A foreground rich with flowers, luxuriant in fruit, shade and sun, dry
pastures, rushing rivers, and murmuring rills, were here. Great trees
were variants of the view, and the high Sierras to the east overtopped
the wondrous plumy forests of their pines with blocks of sculptured
blue. Back of the house was a noble river of water from the hills,
fouled and chained by sluice and dam, but still a noble stream whose
earliest parent rill had gushed from grim old Tallac's slope.
Things of beauty, life, and color were on every side, and yet most
sordid of the human race were the folk about the ranch hotel. To see
them in this setting might well raise doubt that any "rise from Nature
up to Nature's God." No city slum has ever shown a more ignoble crew,
and Jack, if his mind were capable of such things, must have graded
the two-legged ones lower in proportion as he knew them better.
Cruelty was his lot, and hate was his response. Almost the only
amusing trick he now did was helping himself to a drink of beer. He
was very fond of beer, and the loafers about the tavern often gave him
a bottle to see how dexterously he would twist off the wire and work
out the cork. As soon as it popped, he would turn it up between his
paws and drink to the last drop.
The monotony of his life was occasionally varied with a dog fight.
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