ATLIN CITY WATER WORKS.
In this little town or “camp,” as it is called, are very many too poor to get away, too broken in health and spirits to more than barely exist. A delicate woman, once the wife of the mayor of an Illinois city, does our washing; her husband, a maimed and frozen cripple, sits penniless and helpless while she earns a pittance at the tub. Our landlady lets rooms to lodgers, her husband’s body lying beneath the deep waters of Teslin Lake.
A Cambridge Senior wrangler passed us yesterday on the road driving two dogs hitched to a little wagon, peddling cabbages and fish. A few strike gold, and, making their piles, depart, but the many toil hopelessly on, working for a wage, or frozen or crippled, weary in spirit and out of heart, sink into penury, or die mad.
GOVERNMENT MAIL CROSSING LAKE ATLIN.
MINER’S CABIN ON SPRUCE CREEK—ATLIN GOLD DIGGINGS.