Jones is among the lame ducks, and pretty roughly plucked at that. But he still avers that if the furnaces had only paid a good price for the ore at the outset, or Wilkins had only helped him to sustain the market when he asked him, he should have been the master of a pretty snug little fortune. If he only had it now, he would charter a steamer, and take his own freight and passengers for the gold mines.
The Hawk and Buzzard appears to have been “pidgeoned,” for the last time I passed that way the house was shut up. The business having amused itself by stepping over to the Roaring Lion, while the Hawk and Buzzard had flown to the city, “to watch the market.”
Crispin “would only like to have one of those fellows tied for a while, until he had expressed his opinion on him with a stirrup.”
Smith appears to be solicitous to “make them intimately acquainted with the red-hot end of a poker—he’d smelt ’em, dam ’em, and crush ’em too!”
The “Dam,” the “Drift,” the “Cross-Cut,” the “Iron Pump” and the “Adate,” you can see as you go wood-cock shooting next August—but the “Steam-Engine” and the “Mill-Wheel” never arrived, owing to some informality in the order given to the mechanics.
“The Crusher,” it is supposed, is in California with its friends.
G.R.G.
ADIEU, MY NATIVE LAND.
WORDS BY D. W. BELISLE.