So the talk ran on, from one thing to another.  The stars twinkled in countless numbers above, giving just enough light so that they could see the mighty column of granite on either side, and to silhouette the gently-murmuring pines against the canyon wall.  The air was chill and faintly scented by the bursting wild-cherry blossoms that grew in great profusion along the stream.  Here and there, in a moist crevice, a glow-worm shed forth its greenish-yellow glow, to let you know it was night time and summer.  Far away in the distance Phantom Falls was tumbling and splashing over a great pile of drift logs.

As the little company crossed the bridge and rounded a turn in the 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’.’