Idarenot! I will lock it back into my desk. When I am calmer—when once more I have got used to unhappinesss—I will write. For I feel you will not come back to me, dear. Demorrali Matcha, Bellefonte, Pa., Jan. 27, 1899. — * * * For long, monotonous miles under burn- ing suns and chilling dews, a man tramped his way doggedly, and yet light-heartedly, toward the great centre of South African civilization. He had hired a wagon, but its slow speed and the stolid stupidity of its Boer drivers seemed to retard, instead of assist, his progress. The country was in an unsettled and rebellious condition. Ob- stacles to anything like improvement or But he stood aloof, for his hands were white, development had been the only encourage- And he shrank from the thriving mob, ment offered, either to a government or an And he waited when there was a wrong to individual. A jealous stupidity forever right barred the road of progress, and party ani- For some other to do the job; aL mosities filled the air with strife. The en- He longed to lead in the world’s affairs, croaching energy of foreign intruders, both But longing was all he did, shamed and irritated the laissez faire ele- Till he led, one day, all unawares, ment of the Boer community, and the spec- Beneath a coffin lid. tacle of a race obstinately desirous of its — Cleveland Leader. own destruction was complacently offered to the world in general. UNSENT LETTERS. For ten years had Philip Jocelyn watched rr this spectacle—years enlivened by the min- HIS LETTER. or accidents of dynamite explosions, na- If at last I break the silence of years I|tive outbreaks and raids and rebellions have excuse enough. You know why the | that were matters of history. Now, he at hoy-and-girl promise was broken. You | last conquered fortuneand achieved wealth know what life meant for me when I came | and could look at the world from a stand- back from India and found you Gerald | point of financial importance by way of a Blake's wife ! I didn’t say much. | change. There was no need. You knew what you| Certainly he had not much of the ap- had done, and I knew why you had done it. | pearance of a millionaire as he stood be- And it all happened so long ago. Long [side the wagon, watching with sullen eyes enough for forgetfulness on either side— | the preparations for six hours’ ‘‘outspan- yet we have not forgotten. I know that— | ning,’ that the driver and his Kaffir as- without one word from you. But the si- | sistant declared necessary. Delay could lence has been terrible. I have wondered not possibly seem necessary to a soul burn- sometimes why some feared Death. I|ing with impatient longing—to whom shall never fear it, for I have realized its | every hour meant a wasted possibility. fullest meaning—parting, separation, si-| He stood now in the burning noonday lence. Separation was the grave, and si- | heat, looking at the dreary red-sand waste, lence the dead weight of earth piled upon the low hills, the stunted karroo bushes. it. And in that grave lay my dead heart. | His thoughts took a long journey, and : and has lain for blank, uncounted | Showed him a land fair with woods and years . . . ButI broke itat last—at | water, the sound of singing birds, the your bidding. (for surely this | breath of sweet spring mornings. And message is from you; who else | among the woods a woman walked, her could send it?). Can you guess what that | form like the spring in its delicate morn, breaking means for me? It means I have | her eyes dark and lovely as the wet violets but slept, as Lazarus slept, and from that | that nestled in the hedges. Oh! the weary grave the voice of one stronger than even | miles the long, long days that Death calls me forth. The cold earth |Still must pass! His hand went to his breaks, the nheavy stone rolls back, the breast pocket, and he drew from there a sweet, glad air rushes through my prison, | little leather case. He opened it. The and I awake! . . . small oval contained the likeness of that Beloved —I am mad with joy! Is it any | face he bad seen in the woods, and below wonder? My life has been starved of | the little picture was a tiny slip of paper. everything that means life—for actual ex- | It contained but two lines of print: *‘On istence is only its lowest form. I have |the fifth of Sept, 18—, at sea, Gerald worked and toiled, suffered, endured—and | Blake, eldest son of Geoffrey and Ann now—now fortune is mine—fortune that | Blake, of Branksome Manor, Hants, aged makes even the fantasies of Aladdin’s lamp | forty-two.” He read the words again, a possibility. And because when Fate re- though he knew them by heart, and he lents she deals out no half-measures, so— | cried softly. ‘‘Free—free. At last I” and with Fortune, she has also sent me hope. | 1t seemed that the lovely lips on which he For here, on the table before me, lies the | 2azed smiled back at him; and then bis paper that you sent—the paper with that eyes grew suddenly dim, and he put the one line marked. It must have been you | little case away beside a folded packet he —no other. Besides, I know your writing | Was bearing to the post-town that seemed though there is some change’in this—the such endless miles away. He sighed wea- characters are less formed, less decided— | rily. The driver was asleep under the Si yet, it is your Philip” that | Wagon. The Kaffir boy was cooking roual- makes my name look as only your pen | ies at the fire. Above was the blue and could make it look, I have liked my | burning sky, no breath of air, no welcome name’ before—how long before your lips | shade. He felt strangely tired. His head will say it? Oh! my sweet, not long ached, and his eyes were sore with the pray God not long! For life has |&lare and dust. At last he, too, crept un- been so cruel to us, and the years of hap- | der the shade of the wagon, drew off his piness so long delayed. I am coming to | ¢0at, folded it as a pillow, and slept while you on the heels of this letter, so soon as | the burning hours dragged on the day to ever my affairs can be wound up. There | Dightfall. rt is some good in diamond mines after all ! With dusk they woke and ate their sim- Iam hundreds of miles away from civili- | Ple meal, and haroessed the oxen and zation. This paper that I hold— started again. The stars were out; the this messenger that is my resurrection | Right was glorious. They drove through a morn has been weeks reaching me. Weeks, | Jittle wood where will-o’-the-wisps danced Oh !if anything has happened in those | from bough to bough, and strange, cob- weeks ! Why should I write that? What | Webby plants and flowers festooned the chill breath creeps over the wide, hot plain | F0adWay. There was the welcome sound —the treeless desert of sand—over which | °f Water, and they filled their vessels, and the ghastly moonlight streams? How still | the Englishman stayed to bathe, despite the night is! The whole camp sleeps. | §00d-humored warnings from the Boer. I—T alone am wakeful and sleepless, pour. | His head ached and his limbs felt strangely ing my soul out to you; praying God that | tired. The bath refreshed him and again my joy will soon be mine—in reality. I |they moved onward, the oxea tramping laz- could ery like a child and laugh like a ily over uneven roads, urged Or encour: prisoner released; and my heart aches and | 2d by strange epithets from their owners. throbs as fear and delight alternate within | The slow progress, the constant stoppages, it. This is what love does for a man !| the retarding of accidents—all these made Sa You told me I should forget. | UP the sum of days and nights still inter- You—you know I never could ! One can. | vening between the journey and its end. not forget what is more to one than life it- | Lhe Englishman ceased to fume and fret self. The cruel trick you played us was an | 6 ast. A sort of listlessness rapidly came ever-throbbing wound; but now it is healed | ver him. He slept and ate and walked in and Iam well and sane—and Iam going | @ Purely mechanical way; only sometimes to be happy at last—at last! When to. | “uder light of moon and stars, or in some morrow comes I shall take this letter to [8'3Y cool dawn he would draw out the Ht the nearest town myself. I fear to trust it | 1° leather case and look at the face it held to other hands, for you will expect it and [27d read those printed lines that had al- wait for it. Iknow your true heart aud | tered all his life and given him hope when your patient strength. In three weeks I | Ne Was well nigh desperate. : shall be in Cape Town, and then—then for | , The journey was drawing near its end. ship and sea and home and you—you. I But one day more and the town would be find no word to call you that ‘is sweet and | reached. That day he could not Sleep, tender and beautiful enough to hold what He bribed the Boer to shorten the hours of love calls you tomy soul—save that, in-| °ut-spanning.”’ He was in a fever of ex- deed, you are love and soul both—and so | Citement and restlessness. At dawn they have always heen and will be to the end; | WOuld reach Johannesburg. As soon as only there must be no “end” for us, he. he pasties oo Sven he would go there loved. We eg EL 0 stamp and dis e precious missive —or the Wii Pars again in this world ting Shosld tell his heart’s secret and his i 2 life's fidelity. Yee: aa des oted, Puinir] Perhaps too there might be a message . > from her. The impossible is always the PHILIP.—A dreadful thing has hap- | lover’s El Dorado. Johanneshurg was the pened. I hardly know how to tell you. | address he had given when he had left Eng- . +. . The newspaper sent to you with | land. She had promised to remember. that marked name was not sent by me. It | ‘If ever I need yon . . or if ever I was acruel trick! . . . It was Lydia | am free,” she had said, and then through who sent it. = And it is not Gerald Blake, | years had kept silence because it had but Goeffrey, who is dead. She never told seemed the only right thing to do. me till to-night, and when she did—laugh-| It wanted several hours of dawn. A ing as a good joke—I know now how men | fine drizzling rain was falling. The tired and women feels when murder tempts | oxen panted and stumbled along. The them. I cannotspeak of it, so fierce a rage | driver was nodding in his seat. A great thrills my heart. - And oh? if you | stillness was over everything, and the air should believe it! Pray God you won’t— | was chill and damp. He walked beside and yet . I grow sick with fear, | the oxen, urging them on. He felt no fa- remembering how Fate has persecuted us tigue now, nor thought of it. His clothes already; yet, surely, even Fate has some were wet, and his boots slipped on the limit. I have cabled to Johannesburg. | miry clay; but his eyes looked straight be- You are sure to go there—or send. You fore him to where the cloudy outline of would not come without telling me, and I| the city lay dark against the slowly bright- cabled I was writing. But I hardly know | ening sky. what Iam writing, Philip. *‘At last—at last "’ whispered his heart. I am possessed by fear and longing. The | At last the weary journey was over; the fear that you may believe what that lying | toil and the struggles ended. Here was paper says, even as I believed it—for one civilization, and Fortune and joy to come, week. And if you believe it, you will | the like of which his life had never known. come back; and then it will he | Suddenly fear touched him. He stood the old misery overagain. I can only pray | still as if an icy hand lay on his heart. “I it may reach you in time; for if you come | have not heen thankful enough,” he back, Philip, how could I again find thought, ‘‘not half thankful enough. I strength to send you from me? ita should have prayed every day, every night, How could I? With every year my unhap- | every hour. For happiness’ is God’s gift. piness has deepened. I find no words to | I took as my right; I should have been tell you what I have endured, how much I humble and grateful. And now—now I have suffered. And if I saw you. what | cannot pray. It seems as if words had left should I care for that frail shroud of honor | me.” that holds apart our’ martyred lives! I| For love has only one prayer. ‘‘To he could but tell you, what you know so well | with you; to be near you, my heloved.” —that I love you—always—always you. | He choked back the fear and watched There has never been any one else. ‘Oh! | the gray dawn turn to rosy day. The rain Tam mad to write like this—mad with | clouds faded like a mist. He tried to see misery. God pardon me! God help me! | hope in the signal; his heart beat so wildly Oh! that something would warn vou—-| that it almost suffocated him. He called would hold you back; and yet I| to the driver, and swung himself up into could kill myself for sending that cable- | the wagon. He was trembling so that he gram, could not walk. Oh, Philip ! 1 dare not send this letter. | For the fear that had crept into his soul HIS AMBITION. He longed to lead in the world’s affair, But all he did was long; He feared to encounter hidden snares, Or to mix with the vulgar throng. He wanted to lift up fallen men, And hear them call him blest— He wanted the world to mourn him when He was laid away to rest. still lay there, chill and dark. A formless Intense Heat in Australia. ghostly thing that had floated from the Violent Hot Sandstorms Doing Wide-spread Damage city of his desire to give him greeting as he in New South Wales. reached it. * * * * New South Wales is perspiring, groating ‘‘Any message or letter—name, Philip | and gritting its teeth under a succession of Jocelyn ?”’ inquired a voice. violent hot sandstorms. Reports from The postoffice official slouched lazily for- | forty-eight places show temperatures rang- ward, and examined the various pigeon- | ing from 105° to 123° in the shade. This holes and battered hoxes. He drew out a | heat is withering the grass and killing the cablegram and handed it to the inquirer. | sheep by hundreds of thousands. At Syd- ‘‘Been here well-nigh a month,” he re- ney with the thermometer registering 109° marked. a duststorm swept through the city, the The face was so white, the hands so | wind blowing forty miles an hour. The tremulous, that he looked with curiosity at | entire population were compelled to shut the stranger. themselves up in their houses and breathe ‘‘Looks queer; down for fever I should through wet sponges. In many parts of say,’”’ was the sum of his reflections. But | the country rivers have dried up, and in being no concern of his, he turned away | their beds are bodies of animals that went and left him to the pursuit of that missive. | there to drink, and, finding no water, laid He noted that the man had a letter in | themselves in the mud and died. his hand—unaddressed and unstamped.| Bush fires have been started in many di- He laid it down and opened the cablegram. | rections and many ranches have heen de- There was the rustle of paper—a mo- stroyed. From all over the country reports ment’s dead silence—then a husky cry— 'are arriving of disastrous fires directly and the clerk, looking round, saw ‘the | traceable to the terrible heat. A train stranger stagger and fall face downward on | running into Burke was chased by a hurri- the floor. ‘He rushed to his assistance and ! cane that swept the country like the blast called for aid. A crowd of loiterers and | from a furnace. A greasy tarpaulin cover- postal officials were soon around the pros- ing a car of chaff caught fire, and in five trate man. “A fit!” “Apoplexy !"’ | minutes the entire train was in flames ‘Heart !”’ *‘Send for a doctor yuick !”’ while running at the rate of fifty miles an The voices sounded like buzzing gnats | hour to escape the hurricane. When the about Philip Jocelyn’s ears when sense | train stopped the passengers jumped from came back to him. He tried to rise, but all | the car windows to save themselves. strength had left him; only he was con-| At Wagga-Wagga a hurricane blew down scious of some horrible pain, filling every | part of the town. The ruins caught fire nerve centre, and throbbing in pulse and | and great damage was done. brain-—conscious of forms—voices. Then| Between Denililqguin and Broken Hill again all grew dark. They bore him away | the entire country was illuminated by elec- to the hospital in the first stage of the fatal | tricity along the steel line of the telegraph African fever. wires. Balls of fire ten times more bril- On the floor lay the message he had trav- | liant’than an arc light danced on the wires eled hundreds of miles to receive. The | for twenty-eight minutes. clerk picked it up, and then noted that the According to the latest reports, the unstamped letter the man had laid upon | weather was growing hotter still and it the counter laid there still. was feared that the bush fires of last year He took it up, wondering what he had | would be repeated. best do. As it was unaddressed it could not be sent to its destination. It must await the result of the writer's illness. : The Siegen ne read Org % that pil _ With a circulation showing a gratifying po 10113. on iy. boa 3 ways ma 5 _ Increase as compared with a year ago, with okuer people's coneerns SO luteresting. It | 5 more extensive advertising patronage only said: Mistake—not free. Am writing. | than ever before, with added press facili- Da why he fainted off like that? , ts which permit od Slane editions 7140 © whenever necessary. The Pittsburg Zimes There seems no death, marriage, nor maur- comes to the public for 1899. It de dor bes 3 hong He ayale y outh; ana claims to be a good, all-around newspaper, aor 22 S hy ie hv a 22 3s | neglecting no opportunity to entertain its He Surtees i wr ce, mit for of apn to Re 7 € IW : s get the news accurately and promptly. Sie bere Just aligy makin His fori: While it is Republican in politics it en- erhaps lie was sweet on “Doreen.” Never | deavors to be fair in discussion. Overlook- beara as fonien i ing no flog of Soman interons it sore ’ IE. ’ : ully edited and courts the favor of the these papers until I see how these things | fireside rather than the applause of sensa- tarn out. She couldn’t have written, be- | tjon mongers. For reference it submits to cause there’s no other letter here for him.”’ | the unbiased judgment of newspaper men He put them aside in a drawer, where anywhere in the territory in which it eir- they lay forgotten. Philip Jocelyn made | guiates. Three dollars a year or six cents no long fight for life. He had looked his a week. last on it when that message reached him. Wealth—Fortune—Success! What were they without happiness? The fever ran its course to that last stage of exhaustion when mind and body play an A Newspaper Worth Reading. ——————— When Choate Was Ruffled. An unpublished story about Mr. Choate : ; 4 tells of the only time his serenity was ever sanal pars. lenin sind retin sisted ruffled while cross-questioning a witness. ig to another dawn but So was no It was during a famous will case, and Felix hope in its promise. | Weakly his hand McClusky, formerly . door-keeper of the went to his breast pocket groping for the House of Representatives was the witness. ” ‘Now, Mr. McClusky,” insinuatively little leather case. | “ent 1 y _ Some one—a woman—dimly guessing Ye Cho on fie Bary what he sought, placed it in his failing “You're the second blackguard that has grasp. & 2) yo He could not open it, but feminine in- | asked Me Shot a 3g stinct again translated the desire of his im- Saas Swir ogate Rollins himself join ed, ploring eyes. He saw once more the face : ) he loved and the printed lie that had cost ik 9 $s vena Pail 3M Noles him his life. With one last effort of : : strength he tore the strip of paper into business went on again. fragments, and placed the case against his ee heart, and folded his hands upon it. Then ——Plenty of onions for the children, the mists and the darkness rolled back | whether raw, boiled or baked, three or four again and the folded hands grew cold.— ' times a week. No scarlatina or diphtheria “*Rita’® in The American Queen. where the children eat plenty of onions. THE MOUNTAINS AND PLAINS OF COLORADO. Over the Switzerland Trail of America to the Great Gold Camp at Ward.— Boulder the Beautiful.— A Panorama of Scenery, Magnifi- ; cent Beyond Description. Last week we finished the journey through Colorado, so far as the picturesque trip through Clear Creek canon was concerned, and once more those who are traveling with me in this story tour of that State are run out onto its great plains. Only for a short while, however, for it is but 55 miles from Denver to Ward and the journey is full of the most delightful surprises. As contrasted with our last, one can scarcely believe such a change possible, for instead of winding round and round the tortuous curves of a canon, with its walls of solid rock towering thousands of feet above the little train the trip I took on Monday carried me over the summits of mountains that a few years ago were supposed to be insurmountable, except with the sure footed little burros that were the pioneer locomotives of that region. : On Monday morning our train was switched onto the Tnion Pacific, Denver and Gulf standard gauge and we started for Boulder by way of Argo and Semper. The run was made in a short time and we found ourselves in the city that W. 0. Wise writes thus of. ‘ Pure from the fountains of health far above her Balmy and healing the air of the blest Boundless the wealth of the mountains that love her Boulder the beautiful—haven of rest. We did not tarry longer in the city that has sprung up, Aladin like, at the base of the Rockies than to change cars and board the narrow gauge train that was waiting to take us up to Ward, over the Colorado and Northwestern line. The time was long enough to find out that thirty-two years ago the site of Boulder was unbroken by a build- ing of any sort. Standing on the elevated Mesa above the spot at that time Bayard ‘Taylor looked down upon it and his rapture bursted forth as follows: “This is the lovliest spot my eye has ever rested upon.” Our townsman T. B. Hamilton, of Howard street, camped with a party of prospectors on that spot years before Boulder was ever dreamed of and he also followed the wagon trail up Clear Creek canon to Georgetown —described in the last story—where he helped in building the first stamp mill. Gold was first discovered in that region in ’59. And while it was the mineral that attracted people thither first there are boundless other resources on which the 6,000 peo- ple in the place have to live. Located just 29 miles northwest of Denver it is near the centre of Boulder county, one-half of which is a fertile valley, made so by great irrigation systems. The valley is underlaid with coal, so that a greater diversity of interests could scarcely be imagined. The University of the state of Colorado is just south of the city and at city park are the buildings of the Texas-Colorado Chautauqua and summer school. To add to such attractions for the easterner there is a decided eastern atmosphere about the place. You can always find someone you know at Boulder. One of the largest mining operations near the place is practically owned by the Manns in Lock Haven and several of the young men from our sister town are out there. Thos. R. Mann is Treasurer of the C.and N. W. R. R. and Manager of the Pennsylvania Mining and Milling Co. But we must not waste more time there, for the train is ready to start its perilous journey up to Ward. Leaving the Union depot the altitude is 5,335 feet and we have to climb to a height of 9,550 in a run of 26 miles. Soon after leaving Boulder the train ran into the narrow canon which takes its name from Boulder creek that splashes and roars through the great chasm. The canon is not as inspiring as that of the Clear Creek, but the day I made that trip was such an ideal one that the beauty of it seem- ed most gorgeous. An artist run mad with his paints could scarcely produce all the colors that the valleys and peaks of the Rockies displayed that day. Then that sin- gular illusion of nearness to everything, when it is really miles away, that is effected by the rare atmosphere made the scene so enchanting that, honestly, it seemed more EE like a dream than a reality to me. The browns and the reds of the mountain sides only ended where they joined the blue canopy of the heavens. The road follows the stream along through the canon until Sunset is reached and a comparatively wide valley is entered —— the valley actually is not more than a quar- ter of a mile wide, but it looked wonderful, as compared with the narrow gorge from which we had just emerged. On all sides the tops of mountains could be seen and five different grades of the railway were in view above us. Round and round we wound until I almost grew dizzy. Some of the curves were so sharp that the engine looked as if it was going to shoot right over a point and tamble into the valley below, but just as one imagined it doing so it would swing around and go puffing off in another direction. We were getting pretty well up toward the clouds by that time and timid souls were excused for being afraid. In fact I had been told at Boulder that an excursion party had never gone over that road without an accident and with that in my mind and feeling a little queer because of the rarified atmosphere I confess to having thought that maybe I didn’t care much about going up Pike’s Peak, which was scheduled for the next day. Laboring up a grade of over 200ft. to the mile it was not long until away off to the west I caught my first glimpse of the Continental Divide and Old Arapahoe’s three giant peaks, all covered with snow the year round. Looking out over what can be described only as a great sea with mountain peaks for waves breaking its surface there seemed to be banks of white clouds at the horizon. They were the snowy rang- es rearing their hoary heads majestically thousands of feet above the tops we were circling about Every mile or so along the route we would reach a sort of plateau, where there would be a grassy plot and few pines. Mont Alto park is one of such places. There quite a resort has been built and no more God favored spot can be found in the world than it is. The scenery it commands is simply indescribable. After leaving the park the run is made to Gold Hill Pass, where from the car windows can be seen the five tracks below you, the lowest 2,000 ft. And, if standing on the car platform, I believe a woman could throw a stone over the entire five, We soon passed Gold Hill and shot out to Klondike Point where the train seemed to be going down grade but in reality was making an ascent of 600 ft. From that point to Ward it was a journey of winding round and round successive peaks. Often going up at an angle that seemed sure would run us off into the heavens, but invariably when the top was reached an- other and higher peak was found hidden by the one we had just surmounted. Thus we wound up and up until we came to the great curve, 9,500 feet above the level of the sea, and swung into Waid, the gold camp that had waited the coming of that railroad for thirty years. The road was just completed last season. The camp is only 14} miles from Boulder by airline, but 26} by rail. In that dis- tance the train had ascended 4,215. so it is not to be wondered at that I, unused to such altitudes, felt a slight difficulty in breathing. But it was dinner time and the ladies of the camp had prepared luncheon for us in the skating rink, so there was no time to be lost. Talk about Bellefonte hills, they are but dog mounds on a great prai- rie compared with those at Ward. Everything is down or up there. The houses are anchored to the ground on one side and stilted away up on the other. On some of the streets the board walks on the upper side are higher than the houses on the lower and the up and down streets are only for the purpose of making corner lots, for I couldn’t see how in the world they could be used for traffic of any sort. Scrambling down one hill and up another I reached the rink, all out of breath, but not forgetful of the fact that I was hungry. There were the ladies of the town serving a most excellent luncheon and the tender meats, salads and luscious fruits reminded me that life in a gold camp is not without its good things. Had Ward possessed nothing more than the charming women who were there that day it would have been a journey well taker to meet them. At such an altitude the laws of cookery are all disturbed. The eastern house- wife who goes out there fortified’ with one of Mrs, Rorer’s books soon discovers her mistake and invests in the High Altitude Cook Book which has been compiled by the ladies aid society of the Union Congregational church of Ward. Up there water boils at a lower temperature than it does with us and it takes more sugar to make things sweet. After our meal was over I looked about the town and learned the following of its history : While Denver was yet a sand hill and that region was still a portion of the great undefined American Desert; while Brigham Young was battling for a foothold beyond those mountains and John Brown was fighting the cause of a free State; while the In- dians were still in evidence and the exploits of Fremont were fresh in the public mind; long before Greeley had uttered his famous dictum, or the great trunk lines had reached the Missouri, Calvin W. Ward, a solitary prospector pushing his way along those mountain streams, discovered the region which now bears his name. This was thirty-eight years ago. It is a matter of some wonder, therefore, that a district older than the State Cap- ital, a district that has witnessed the birth of Leadville, Aspen—the whole San Juan, Creede and Cripple Creek; has witnessed the rapid rise and equally rapid fall of Cari- ‘bon, Jim Town and Gold Hill, a district that has all these years been sending down its gold, should have waited nearly half a century for recognition. In the knife blade rich teliurium veins that characterized the eastern belt of Boulder county’s hills men had wasted hope and fortune,. and though Ward lay far beyond, rich in its massive strength of sulphide ores—rich in the ores that have made Gilpin the parent of $100,- 000,000, it availed nothing. The shibboleth had gone forth. Boulder was a region of knife blade seams, of wrecked hopes and fortunes. But of all this, it is neither timely nor profitable to speak now. It belongs to the dead past, and like a dead Indian is best so. In the early spring of ’60 Calvin W. Ward discovered the district. The credit of the discovery belongs to him, but here the credit ends. The mine he opened was never a mine, and it is doubtful if it ever can be made one. As you swing into Left Hand gulch to-day, along the line of the Colorado and Northwestern, you’ll see his shaft house on the opposite hill. The *‘Miser’s Dream’’ is the name he gave it, and like many a prospect opened in the hills ’tis still a dream. Not so of him who follow- ed in his foot steps—Cy Deardorff. Here is the man who shaped the early destiny of the camp, the man who discovered and opened the great Columbia vein, whose strength and riches has upheld the varying fortunes of the camp for nearly forty years. €y Deardorff is there to-day, you can see him—the best type of the pioneer prospector anywhere known—simple of manner, clean of habit, honest and of great courage. And yet he who made Ward possible, he who pointed the road to fortune for others has himself missed the way. After looking about the town far several hours I reclimbed to the station, having to stop to rest several times, and sat there and reflected at the wonderful scenes about me. As completely hemmed in and guarded as the towering peaks of the Rockies could make it this little camp of a thousand souls nestled there in apparent comfort and happiness. There was much more of life and hopefulness about it than was to be seen over at Silver Plume, because Ward is a gold camp and the other is a silver one. The people fully came up to the courteous, considerate types I had met in Denver and ere the train started on the journey back to Boulder I had concluded that, isolated as it is, there are plenty of places I would sooner fly from than from Ward. The mining about Ward is done by what is known as the Big Five, or a union of five incorporated mining companies. | They control the Dew Drop, the Adit, the Adit tunnel, the Ni Wot and the Dew Drop mill. We entered the Dew Drop tunnel which has been driven 1,466 ft. and is 600 ft. under the surface. On the return trip while changing cars at Boulder, a fine-looking young man, probably six feet tall, dressed in corduroys and with a felt sombrero on the back of a perfectly shaped head, stepped up and asked me if there were any Boston people in the party. He said he had once lived in the city which sent forth the Hon. John L. Sullivan and the Hon. Joseph McCabe but turned its back on McMonnie’s poor Bacchante, and was heart sick to clasp the hand of anyone, only $0 he hailed from Bos- ton. The young man had been an art student under Bouguereau in Paris, when tuberculosis developed. He was sent home to die and was in such a condition when he reached New York that he did not even take time to go up to his home in Boston for a visit, but struck for Colorado as fast as fast trains would carry him. When he landed in Boulder he had to be supported in leaving the train. He had been thers but two years when I met him and a more robust, handsomer looking young man couldn’t be found anywhere. He said he taught school in the winter and ‘‘rustled’’ in the summer and tried to be contented. But notwithstanding a country that God must have made especially to bring out the greatest talents of artist’s souls and assurance of making a good living this young man talked of the East with a longing, wistful tone that was really pitiful. He knew that it meant certain death for him to venture back, and because of the knowledge that he could never do it and live the East seemed doubly dear to him. GEo. R. MEEK.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers