This looked like a wet season to me, and when the boat was ready to go down the river I went on board, bound for Sacramento.

Here it was also getting terrible wet and muddy, and the rain kept pouring down.

In the morning I worked my way up J street and saw a six-mule team wading up the streets the driver on foot, tramping through the sloppy mud, occasionally stepping in a hole and falling his whole length in the mud.

On the street where so much trouble was met by the teamsters, a lot of idlers stood on the sidewalk, and when a driver would fall and go nearly out of sight, they would, like a set of loafers, laugh at him and blackguard him with much noise, and as they were numerous they feared nothing.
Suddenly a miner, who had lately arrived from the mountains, raised his room window in the second story of a house, put out one leg and then his body, as far as he could, and having nothing on but his night clothes, shouted to the noisy crowd below:--"Say can't you d----d farmers plow now ?" At this he dodged back quickly into his window as if he expected something might be thrown at him.

The rain continued, and the water rose gradually till it began to run slowly through the streets, and all the business stopped except gambling and drinking whisky, which were freely carried on in the saloons day and night.
While here in Sacramento I was sufficiently prompted by curiosity to go around to the place on J street where the Legislature was in session.