THE CROWD ON THE PIER
By the time we had worked our slow way up to the wharf, under the guidance of
McIntyre, the pilot, a mixed crowd of four or five hundred people had assembled:
Chinamen, in the costume of their country; foreigners and the better class of natives, and
"half whites" in carriages and dressed in Sacramento summer fashion; other native men
on foot, some in the cast-off clothing of white folks, and a few wearing a battered hat, an
old ragged vest, and nothing else—at least nothing but an unnecessarily slender rag passed
between the legs; native women clad in a single garment—a bright colored robe or
wrapper as voluminous as a balloon, with full sleeves. This robe is "gathered" from
shoulder to shoulder, before and behind, and then descends in ample folds to the feet—seldom a chemise or any other undergarment—fits like a circus tent fits the tent pole, and
no hoops. These robes were bright yellow, or bright crimson, or pure black occasionally,
or gleaming white; but "solid colors" and "stunning" ones were the rule. They wore little
hats such as the sex wear in your cities, and some of the younger women had very pretty
faces and splendid black eyes and heavy masses of long black hair, occasionally put up in
a "net"; some of these dark, gingerbread colored beauties were on foot—generally on bare
foot, I may add—and others were on horseback—astraddle; they never ride any other way,
and they ought to know which way is best, for there are no more accomplished
horsewomen in the world, it is said. The balance of the crowd consisted chiefly of little
half-naked native boys and girls. All were chattering in the catchy, chopped-up Kanaka
language; but what they were chattering about will always remain a mystery to me.
