e road,
a campfire, built in a little sheltered nook back from the road, came
into view. It cast long beams of light and grotesque shadows in every
direction, while the odor of cherry blossoms changed to the aroma of good
coffee.

"I hope Old Ben has as good a pot of coffee on the fire at the Inn," said
one.

Presently "Old Night Cap" loomed up against the sky.

"This is as far as we could come a year or two ago," said Mr. Allen to
Willis. "Before the railroad and the inn were built we used to think it
was a long way even up here to the old mine."

"Did I ever tell you about the old Negro that owned this mine? Well, he
came herein the early days and found a strange yellow outcropping here.
He built himself a funny little shanty on the hillside, which he thatched
with spruce boughs. Here he spent a good many years of his life, digging.
His tunnel caved in soon after he left it, but he did find a little gold
for his work. When his provisions gave out, he would take his old mule,
which was his only companion, tramp into the city, sell his little bag of
gold dust, and buy bacon, flour, and beans. After a little spree he would
return to the mine, always sure that he would find the gold in larger
quantities. Often I've stopped to talk with him as he brought a
wheelbarrow load of dirt out of the tunnel to the edge of the little old
dump.

"'Yep, I'se 'bout to fin' heaps an' heaps o' gol',' he'd say as he pulled
at his stubby gray whiskers. 'Marse Spruce-tree, yondah, he done tole me
to jes' keep a diggin' an' I'd sho fin' gol'. When I 'se jes' 'bout to
gib up, an' I does sometimes, yes, sah, I does, ole Marse Spruce-tree he
jes' stan' up yondah on de hillside an' laff an' say, "Why, Rufus, yuse
is altogedder wufless." Ole Brer Rabbit, he nod he haid an' 'spress
heself same way. "Jes keep a diggin', Unc' Rufus," he say, "Jes' keep a
diggin'." They sho is gol' in this yere ole world if ye jes' keeps a
diggin'.'

"He'd sing all day as he worked, and never seemed to lose faith; but when
the canyon road was extended, and the inn built, it took away the quiet
and solitude from the place. The old man just picked up his belongings
and went farther back into the mountains--no one knew where; but
somewhere, I suspect, he is still talking aloud to the trees and making
friends with the wild things, still giving his life to digging up dreams
and living for hopes that will never be realized. It's a strange disease,
this gold fever.