unds on this rude stage so
new to you. First, you will have a short season of melodrama by a
melancholy chap called Autumn, gloriously garbed in green and gold, with
splashes and dashes of lavender and lace, but sad, sweetly sad, and
sighing always, for life is such a little while."

With a sadder smile, she kissed her rosy fingers and was gone,--gone
with her gorgeous garments, her ferns and flowers, her low, soft sighs
and sunny skies, and there was not a man that was a man but missed her
when she was gone.

The autumn scene, though sombre and sad, was far from depressing, but
they all felt the change. John Hislop seemed to feel it more than all
the rest; for besides being deeply religious, he was deeply in love. His
nearest and dearest friend, Heney--happy, hilarious Heney--knew, and he
swore softly whenever a steamer landed without a message from
Minneapolis,--the long-looked-for letter that would make Hislop better
or worse. It came at length, and Hislop was happy. With his horse, his
dog, and a sandwich,--but never a gun,--he would make long excursions
down toward Lake Linderman, to Bennett, or over Atlin way. When the
country became too rough for the horse, he would be left picketed near a
stream with a faithful dog to look after him while the pathfinder
climbed up among the eagles.

In the meantime Foy kept pounding away. Occasionally a soiled pedestrian
would slide down the slope, tell a wild tale of rich strikes, and a
hundred men would quit work and head for the highlands. Foy would storm
and swear and coax by turns, but to no purpose; for they were like so
many steers, and as easily stampeded. When the Atlin boom struck the
camp, Foy lost five hundred men in as many minutes. Scores of graders
dropped their tools and started off on a trot. The prospector who had
told the fable had thrown his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the
general direction. Nobody had thought to ask how far. Many forgot to
let go; and Heney's picks and shovels, worth over a dollar apiece, went
away with the stampeders. As the wild mob swept on, the tethered
blasters cut the cables that guyed them to the hills, and each loped
away with a piece of rope around one ankle.

Panting, they passed over the range, these gold-crazed Coxeys, without a
bun or a blanket, a crust or a crumb, many without a cent or even a
sweat-mark where a cent had slept in their soiled overalls.

When Foy had exhausted the English, Irish, and Alaskan languag