s of a shaft, a bucketful of rock and sand,
which is dumped into a push-car, and from thence transferred to the
line of sluice-boxes in the stream, where more half-clothed Utes are
busily engaged in sifting golden particles from the rich sand.

What a transformation is all this since we left the Flower Pocket a
little over a month ago! Now, everywhere within those majestic
mountain-locked walls is bustle and excitement; then, the valley was
sleeping away the calm, perfume-laden autumnal days, unconscious of
the mines of wealth lying nestling in its bosom, and content and happy
in its quietude and the adornments of nature's beauties.

Now, shouts, ringing halloos, angry curses at the obstinate mules, the
rumbling of ponderous machinery, the clink of picks and reports of
frequent blasts, the deadened sound of escaping steam, the barking of
dogs, the whining of horses--all these sounds are now to be heard.

Then, the valley was peacefully at rest; the birds chimed in their
exquisite music to the AEolian harp-like music of the breeze through
the branches of the mountain pines; the waters pouring adown from the
stupendous peaks created an everlasting song of love and constancy;
bees and humming-birds drank delicious draughts from the blushing lips
of a million nodding flowers; the sun was more hazy and
drowsy-looking; everything had an appearance of ethereal peace and
happiness.

But, like a drama on the stage, a grand transformation had taken
place; a beautiful dream had been changed into stern reality; quietude
and slumber had fled at the bold approach of bustling industry and
life. And all this transformation is due to whom?

The noonday sun shone down on all the busy scene with a glance of
warmth and affection, and particularly did its rays center about two
men, who, standing on the southern side of the valley, up in among the
rugged foothills, were watching the living panorama with the keenest
interest.

They were Harry Redburn and the queer old hump-backed, bow-legged
little locator, "General" Walsingham Nix.

Redburn was now looking nearly as rough, unkempt and grizzled as any
veteran miner, and for a bet, he actually had not waxed the ends of
his fine mustache for over a week. But there was more of a healthy
glow upon his face, a robustness about his form, and a light of
satisfaction in his eye which told that the rough miner's life agreed
with him exceedingly well.

The old "General" was all dirt, life and