“Fat, you stole my supper right out of my mouth,” said Ham, gloomily.

“Oho,” said Willis.  “How do you suppose this happened?  All of these big trees are girdled.  See, the bark has been cut clear around the trunk with an ax, so as to cut off the supply of sap.  Mr. Allen, what is your explanation?”

“Well, I’m not just sure about it, Willis.  Some one may have killed them for timber or some one may have girdled them so as to be able to start a big fire.  It might have been the work of timber pirates.  A man would get a mighty severe punishment for that, if he were caught.”

A little farther up the canyon they found traces of an old placer sluice, and what remained of some of the old, homemade cradles for panning out the gold.

“Gold, gold, gold; you find traces of it everywhere, and traces of the men who sought it.  A sight like that always makes me sorry for some old, forlorn, disappointed miner,” said Mr. Allen.  “Of all the dilapidated, blue-producing sights that I have ever seen, it’s one of these old, deserted mining camps, for they come as near representing a forlorn hope as anything you can find.

“One time I was with a crowd of boys, and we made a detour to look over a deserted mining camp.  They called it Old North Cripple Creek.  Years before, shrewd individuals had salted prospect holes at that point, then discovered their own gold.  Of course there was a grand rush, and a boom town resulted.  Crude houses were built, stores and saloons erected, and mining operations begun.  A real, substantial log hotel was erected, and I’ve heard that their charge was upwards of ten dollars a night, payable in advance.

“But the camp died as quickly as it had been born, and the people, mostly men, pushed on to other fields.

“It was a good many years after the place was deserted that I was there, but it made a tremendous impression upon me.  I had the blues for days afterward.  Old, tumbled-down houses, the windows knocked out and the doors hanging on leather hinges.  I remember one building that had been a saloon.  The great mirrors back of the bar had never been removed, and the rains of many seasons had peeled the mercury from the plate glass and the gilt frames were faded.  We entered the old hotel, and were surprised to find some of the fittings still there.  In the attic we found an old chest of letters—­and, speaking of strange coincidences, a large number of those letters were written and signed by Daddy Wright.  Away up in the back corner of the attic sat an old owl.  He looked down on us from his perch in a reproving manner, to think we would disturb the haunts of the past in that crude way.  He was a weird looking old fellow as he sat there, blinking his big yellow eyes, and I couldn’t help thinking that the owl of wisdom perhaps a good many times might be found perched in the dark attics of the past, instead of spending his time in the sunlight of the great and active present.”