In that one little corner of California is found a species of mining which is seldom or never mentioned in print.  It is called “pocket mining” and I am not aware that any of it is done outside of that little corner.  The gold is not evenly distributed through the surface dirt, as in ordinary placer mines, but is collected in little spots, and they are very wide apart and exceedingly hard to find, but when you do find one you reap a rich and sudden harvest.  There are not now more than twenty pocket miners in that entire little region.  I think I know every one of them personally.  I have known one of them to hunt patiently about the hill-sides every day for eight months without finding gold enough to make a snuff-box—­his grocery bill running up relentlessly all the time—­and then find a pocket and take out of it two thousand dollars in two dips of his shovel.  I have known him to take out three thousand dollars in two hours, and go and pay up every cent of his indebtedness, then enter on a dazzling spree that finished the last of his treasure before the night was gone.  And the next day he bought his groceries on credit as usual, and shouldered his pan and shovel and went off to the hills hunting pockets again happy and content.  This is the most fascinating of all the different kinds of mining, and furnishes a very handsome percentage of victims to the lunatic asylum.

Pocket hunting is an ingenious process.  You take a spadeful of earth from the hill-side and put it in a large tin pan and dissolve and wash it gradually away till nothing is left but a teaspoonful of fine sediment.  Whatever gold was in that earth has remained, because, being the heaviest, it has sought the bottom.  Among the sediment you will find half a dozen yellow particles no larger than pin-heads.  You are delighted.  You move off to one side and wash another pan.  If you find gold again, you move to one side further, and wash a third pan.  If you find no gold this time, you are delighted again, because you know you are on the right scent.

You lay an imaginary plan, shaped like a fan, with its handle up the hill—­for just where the end of the handle is, you argue that the rich deposit lies hidden, whose vagrant grains of gold have escaped and been washed down the hill, spreading farther and farther apart as they wandered.  And so you proceed up the hill, washing the earth and narrowing your lines every time the absence of gold in the pan shows that you are outside the spread of the fan; and at last, twenty yards up the hill your lines have converged to a point—­a single foot from that point you cannot find any gold.  Your breath comes short and quick, you are feverish with excitement; the dinner-bell may ring its clapper off, you pay no attention; friends may die, weddings transpire, houses burn down, they are nothing to you; you sweat and dig and delve with a frantic interest—­and all at once you strike it!  Up comes a spadeful of earth and quartz that is all lovely with soiled lumps and leaves and sprays of gold.  Sometimes that one spadeful is all—­$500.  Sometimes the nest contains $10,000, and it takes you three or four days to get it all out.  The pocket-miners tell of one nest that yielded $60,000 and two men exhausted it in two weeks, and then sold the ground for $10,000 to a party who never got $300 out of it afterward.