Each one of these
led as straight as nature would permit to some specific spot where men
toiled incessantly for the golden dross, guarding their claims with
loaded rifles, while delving deeper and deeper beneath the mysterious
rocks, ever seeking to make their own the secret hoards of the world's
great storehouse. Countless centuries were being rudely unlocked
through the ceaseless toil of pick and shovel, the green hillsides torn
asunder and disfigured by ever-increasing piles of debris, while
eager-eyed men struggled frantically to obtain the hidden riches of the
rocks. Here and there a rudely constructed log hut, perched with
apparent recklessness upon the brink of the precipice, told the silent
story of a claim, while in other places the smouldering remains of a
camp-fire alone bespoke primitive living. Yet every where along that
upper terrace, where in places the seductive gold streak lay half
uncovered to the sun, were those same yawning holes leading far down
beneath the surface; about them grouped the puny figures of men
performing the labors of Hercules under the galling spur of hope.
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