A Dentist in Town

In 1916 Doctor C. L. Butterfield set up his dental practice in the Dughi Builiding renting the top floor.  This building is now owned by Frank and Judy Brockman.  He ran his office for 10 years before retiring to his ranch which is now part of the El Dorado Ranch.

Charles Lincoln Butterfield was born in 1860 at Watsonville, CA.  After getting his dentist license upon the advice of a family friend, Mrs. Henry Swank, he moved to Sheep Ranch in 1881.  His office was in the hotel building.  The Swank family was very active in Railroad Flat and Mrs. Swank discovered the famous Petticoat  Mine in 1867.  Their daughter Elizabeth Swank grew up in Railroad Flat and married Doc Butterfield in 1882.  They had 7 children. Their son Don lived in Mountain Ranch most of his life.  Don’s wife Virginia was post master in Mountain Ranch in 1956 for almost 20 years.

In 1904 Doc Butterfield’s health started to fail so Doc came up with the idea of a family tour.  He bought a wagon from the Palace Hotel in San Francisco and started the tour.

Each of his children played a musical instrument.  They lived out of the wagon and toured Northern California especially the towns of the Mother Lode.   That wagon is on display today at the Calaveras County Fairgrounds.

Their last concert was held in the Mountain Ranch Dance Hall in 1912.  Doctor Butterfield was a lover of music and poetry and all his children became fine musicians in their own right.

Here is one of his well known poems, published in the Calaveras Prospect in 1926.

GOOD OLD CALAVERAS

When angels in their robes of white

Flew ‘round this world, to find a site

More  lovely than their heavenly sphere,

They folded wings and parked right here;

Saying, “We never more shall roam,’

For we have found on earth, a home,”

And then a village pure and meek,

Was built upon the Angel’s Creek,

In Calaveras,

Now in this town, there is no guile,

They greet you with a holy smile.

There, ladies speak in accents low.

Lipstick and rouge, they do not know.

And for their “grub” they take no loot.

For cash, of evil is the root.

No purse or scrip is needed there,

For Angels’ food is free as air,

in Calaveras.

Man-angels, you will never know,

Their skins’s so tough, their wings can’t grow.

And when they reach on earth their end,

And up to heaven they would ascend,

A wet cloud they must sit astride,

Or in a fiery chariot ride.

So rubber suits they have to buy,

Or in asbestor mount on high,

In Calaveras.

The day will come when I must die,

And choose my mansion in the sky,

Then when you gather ‘round my bier

And on my grave you drop a tear

Tread softly, or I might awake

And say “That mansion is a fake.

Its gilded dome and golden stair

Are junk, and never did compare---

With Calaveras.

Mark Twain once wrote about a frog

That could out-jump the largest dog.

Where did he find him?  Not in Maine;

Nor on the hills of sunny Spain;

Not in the mountains of Peru,

Nor on the plains of Timbuctoo;

Not in an ancient Irish bog,

He found him sitting on a log

In Calaveras.

And now proud city by the slough,

What has our county done for you?

She furnished you with all your soil,

Furnished the water that you boil,

She furnished your electric juice

Furnished the wood to cook your goose;

She furnished you your men of brains,

Who came from good old mountain strains,

Of Calaveras.

Ye men of Stockton, listen now!

Bring out the nanny goat, your cow;

Bring out your fairest beauty queen,

Bring out your fat men and your lean;

Bring out your editors of fame,

Bring out your deaf, your blind, your lame,

Assemble on some old mud scow,

Please face the east, and make your bow

To Calaveras.

O, beauteous land!  Oh, land of skulls!

Well filled with brains, a few are culls!

Land of the orange, fig and vine,

Land of the fretful porcupine,

Land of the apple, peach and pear,

Land of fair ladies with bobbed hair,

Land of manhood, brave and strong,

Sing, brothers, sing! and boost with song,

Old Calaveras.

Dr. C.L. Butterfield,

Mountain Ranch, California

And also this frog poem published in 1879.

In  Mountain Ranch we train our frogs

To use in place of hunting dogs,

‘Tis common up at Emery Lake

To see a frog bring out a drake.

In “Tule-town: a dog will do

To hunt mud-turtles on the slough,

But for us, they are too slow,

We need more speed up here, you know

In Calaveras

Our fleas are surely very wise,

And grow to an enormous size

Listen and i will tell you, how

Our farmers use them here to plow,

When on our roads, one often sees

A rancher with his span of fleas

To Valley people, this seems queer,

But not to us who live up here,

In Calaveras

In Stockton, bedbugs do affright me,

Crawl up my back, and scratch and bite me.

Here they are very meek and mild

And harmless as a little child.

I will admit they bob their hair,

Rolled stockings and short skirts they wear.

Please Stockton, don’t throw any mud,

For in their veins flows good blood,

Of Calaveras

By C.L. Butterfield, Mountain Ranch

(This was published in a local newspaper in 1879).