relates this story: "While working on Rock Creek, the
weather being very hot, we always had near us a can of water, and close
to it we put a tea-cup to hold the particles of gold as we collected
them. One morning as we were at work a thirsty digger came by, who asked
permission to take a draught of water, which being granted, he filled up
the cup, and quaffed off the costly drink, without either drinking our
healths or leaving the least sediment at the bottom. I suspected at
first that some trick had been played upon us, and he had secreted the
gold; but from the evident distress of the man, and the earnest manner
in which he promised to repay us when he got work, I firmly believe that
he had swallowed the gold, not having noticed it in the cup."

Scarcely twenty-three years have elapsed since the gold yield in
California became an undoubted fact, and within that period many
millions of dollars' worth of gold-dust has been added to the wealth of
the world. But even these results have been eclipsed by the wonderful
discoveries of gold in Australia. So extensively are the gold deposits
distributed throughout that great country, that Melbourne, the capital,
has been said to be paved with the rich metal, the broken quartz rocks
which have been used to make the streets being found to contain gold.

A BOAT-RACE AT YARROW.

BY H. L. TALBOT.

Yarrow is the place where I am at school while my father and mother are
in Europe. My father was ordered to the Mediterranean: that's an awful
word to spell. My chum, Sandy, says, "Remember from the Latin
_Medi-terra_," but that's harder than the spelling. I am glad every day
that I was sent here, because I don't believe there is another school in
the world where you can have such fun. Mr. May is our teacher; and
though he is pretty strict always, and sometimes, if a fellow tries to
cheat or play sick, he's awful hard on him, yet when everybody is trying
to do his best, Mr. May is the quickest to find it out, and it makes him
mighty good-natured. Perhaps I should not think Yarrow such a good place
to send a boy if it wasn't for the river that is within a stone's-throw
from Mr. May's barn. We skate there in winter, and in summer row, swim,
and drive logs. Last year we had nothing to row in but the old _Pumpkin
Seed_, broad as she is long, and rows like a ship's yawl. Now she might
fill and go to the bottom, for all we cared, for Nate Niles and I have
had birthdays, and my uncle T