Lamoille newsdealer. [volume] (Hyde Park, Vt.) 1860-1877, 1871-06-07

e1tpehteri worked in a quartz mill; hied
of to more or less new diggings-to Fra
ser River, Arizona, CaribOo, Washoe;
but finally drifts back 10 ,be old Camp"
where he pulled up the virgin gold in the
grass roots in l749.
Sometimes, he becomes the last mau
in Camp" Men, life, buildiugs-all,
save the old log-hut. his dwelling, have
disappeared. All about are the pits dig
ged in former days, but they are smooth
ed by the hand of Time, aud overgrown
with the thiekly springing vegetation,
There are great piles Of powders, heaped
up years ago hut even in their iutcrstices
the weeds are springing. In the gulches,
the Iivnlet trickles family in summer, OF
rushcs aud roars, muddy aud turbid, ia
winter. The rugged mountains look down
with the same stern composure as they
r did upon the excited crowd who dug, ami
drauk, and fought in this Iavine twenty
odd years ago. The Last Man rccks
, his cradle in the silent gulch alone. lie
finds the remnant Of pay-streak here, a
= halcworked crevice there, not worth at
: tcntIon in more prosperous times. He
d runs through sluiee Or rocker two or three
e hundred buckets Of dirt per day, gathers
= thcrefrom perhaps dollar of 6ne dust,
, tramps YEARLY back TO his lone cabin,
" cooks his solitary supper, sits in his door
: way, smokes his pine, feeds his chickens,
y aud goes safly to bed. This, from day to
It day, from year 10 year, varied only 5y an
5. occasional visit to the nearest neighbor
n some other "Last Man a mile or two
Sc away, or a trip to Camp" to purchase
1t provisions, is the life of "Thc Last Man
rs in the Dead Camp"
Of He ceased years ago to write home /;
ID Eastern friends and relatives have lost all
is trace of him. The " Last Mar" came
is here to make fortune. He never meant
Y to return home without one. He has en-
ne dured privation, hardship, loneliness he
IN has worked, planned, fretted-and failed
e. He will not go home poor, and wealth re-
rs tires farther and farther in the distance
ed Yet he clings to the deserted Bar there
g he is at least still his own master, so long
as the oft-turned, oft-dug-over dirt will
an yield a dollar or two per day. Sometimes
liza he is not seen for days; the house is barred
III and silentj they commence asking, Wha
be has become of -Y'
nd They break open the cabin the "Las
ST, Man in the Dead Camp" lies there: h
he has taken his departure the few remain
IN ing relics of lS49 bury him in the littl
The graveyard on the red hillside. Its fenc
md is tumbling down; the wooden lread' board
Sc lie prone to the earth, split and the III
led scriptions erased by time, the sun, the rair
'ne One old, familiar sound is heard: the roa
or of the river below over the ritfle--roarin
at- as it roared IN the ears Of the ''Las
es; Man." when in 1850, from the brow {
'ful yonder hill he first caught sight of il
ep- glittering line, and the grating of pebble
H. from thousand rockers sounded like ti
ned din of cottcn-factory-roaring as it fe
hey upon his dulled and dying ear, the la
ds; sound of earth-roaring an eteynal requ
lion um in the long years to come, While in
cd iar-away Eastern home mother, wifi
era daughter, sister, still long, and wait, al
ed weep, vainly hoping for the return of tt
nat- F" Last Man of the Dead Camp"