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186 Away over there in the northwest, among the forest-clad hills which skirt the Valley of Russian River, is the favorite stamping-ground of certain amateur hunters and fishermen from San Francisco: members of the bar and occupants of the bench, who come here to spend the summer vacation, "camping out," roughing it, shooting, fishing, swapping anecdotes by the blazing camp-fires far into the glorious nights, and growing little poorer in pocket, while growing rich to abundance in the health, strength, and elasticity of spirit which they carry back to the city with them. Judge, of the U. S. Court, in San Francisco, is one of these choice spirits. He is as captivating a talker as you may meet in many a long year's journeyings around this sinful world. His fame has gone out through the land, and everybody now knows him by sight, or reputation at least. It was different years ago. Once upon a time, a party of these city sports were camping in the mountains, and having a jolly good time. One evening a stranger came into camp, and as he appeared to be a nice, quiet, sociable, intelligent gentleman, he was made free to everything for the night. He soon showed himself not only a good story-teller, but something still dearer to the Judge's heart—a good listener. After supper, he seated himself upon a log before the blazing camp-fire, and the Judge, placing himself between him and the fire, crossed his hands under his coat-tails, bent his face in close proximity to that of his victim, and went for him for all he was worth. An hour—two, three hours passed, and still the Judge talked on; and still