ued
our--yes, excavations; for out of the dust and neglect of years of
desertion, we dug the history of a buried past, of a forgotten
civilization, where men had worked, women had loved and sacrificed, and
little children had laughed and played.

[Illustration: Out of the dust of years, we dug the history of a buried
past.]

One of the houses had evidently held the post office, for in it was a
small cabinet holding a few pieces of uncalled-for mail addressed to
various persons. There were unopened letters and papers, bearing the
postmarks of towns back East; there were packages, showing marks of
long journeys, still intact, their cords still tightly knotted. Many
of the letters had been forwarded from other Western post offices, and
had followed the men to whom they were addressed to this, then alive,
town named Teller.

The postmaster had apparently been a notary public. His book of
records lay dusty on the shelf, near what had been the post office.
Upon it, too, were filed copies of mining claims. "The Grizzly King,"
"Decoration Day," "Lady Forty," "Queen Victoria," "Tom Boy," "Last
Chance," "Deep Water," "Black Mule," "Hope Ever," fantastic,
picturesque names, suggesting many a tale of romance and adventure,
revealing the hopes and fears of daring hearts.

Something of these was hinted at in an open letter lying on the floor
of one of the cabins. It was worn thin where it had been creased, as
though its owner had long carried it around in his pocket, the better
to read and reread it. The wind had pried into it, leaving it spread
open for the next intruder's convenience. Somehow, I felt those frank
spirits would not mind my reading it:

Dear Fred:

Hope you strike it rich in Teller, the new town you wrote about. Most
anything out there would beat what we have here. Corn is all dried up
in Iowa, and there's little to live on. Quite a lot of the neighbors
have "pulled up stakes" and moved to Kansas. Ten wagons left last
week, following the road west which so many have taken for better or
worse.

The last and smallest cabin in the town was as clean and tidy as though
its owner might have been gone but a few days. Upon the table was a
worn and frayed little book, weighted down by a rough piece of ore, a
sort of diary, and yet it seemed to be written to some one. I copied
extracts from it into my own notebook:

My dear Katherine--I believe I've struck it rich at last. There was a
rush up her