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Show THE HERMIT: A tale of mining life in the Sierra Madre. Away up on the main range - the Sierra Madre - of the Rocky mountains, twelve thousand feet above the sea, rests a little mining camp of some twenty or twenty-five rough log cabins. Right on the edge of timber line. Tall spruce pines below, bare, jagged rocks above. North, south, east and west huge peaks tower in their massive grandeur and rear their stony heads to the rising and setting sun, and seem like grim old sentinels keeping watch over the little basin in which are the cabins, collectively known as Mineral City. The mountain sides are seamed and ribbed with the rich silver voice of San Juan, and scores of vents?, shafts, and tunnels echo daily to the clang of the drill and sledge as the hardy miners delve after the metallic treasures of these great store-houses. <br><br> Near the blacksmith shop where the not unmelodious rings of drills and picks being sharpened is heard all the [unreadable line] in stands unobtrusively upon its rocky foundation. There is an air of neatness about its hipped roof of nicely split "ebalco" and its carefully hewn door that speaks well for the patience, taste and skill of its builder. In fact, the cabin is pointed out as a fine specimen of frontier architecture. <br><br> The solitary owner and occupant of this little building was known throughout the camp as "the Hermit." Not, be it understood, because of his imitating those poor old beings of ancient story who dwelt in caves and fled at the approach of any one, but simply because he was a taciturn, quiet old fellow, who worked his ?? alone; and when joining the rest of the men about the fire in the saloon, always sought a corner and rarely, if ever, took part in the conversation. <br><br> He was vastly different from the rest of his fellow-laborers. He never drank, he never swore, but in his quiet, unobtrusive way would sit and gaze intently at the fire, unmindful of the stories, the hearty laughter, the social drinking and the absorbing games of cards going on around him. Tall he was, with a decided stoop in his shoulders; a long beard, plentifully streaked with gray, and a pair of wearied, restless, nervous, yearning eyes that somehow appealed to the rough but good-hearted miners. <br><br> Mail came twice a week to Mineral City, and the saloon was the postoffice post office. Regularly upon the carrier's arrival the hermit would join the crowd and listen with an eager, expectant air as the superscriptions of the various letters were read by the saloon-keeper, and then, when the last missive had been reached and either claimed or set aside, he would lower his head and slowly slip away to his seat at the corner of the fireplace, with never a word. Every mail that went out carried a letter from the hermit, always directed to the same party, and every month he registered one in the same address, which the boys shrewdly guessed contained such money as the poor fellow was able to scrape together from the scanty yield of his mine - the Alice. <br><br> The boys had often debated upon writing a letter to the hermit, for his continual expectation and his regularly bitter disappointment touched them, but they argued that it would not be what he wanted and so the idea was abandoned. Several of them asked the postmaster to lay aside their letters without reading aloud their addresses, that the contrast might not be so painful to the hermit, and none of them gave vent to any joyful exclamations when the mail brought them favors, as was their wont. The old whiskey keg at the corner of fireplace was always reserved for the hermit, and come when he might he never found it occupied, or when sitting there was he ever crowded. And so these rought frontiersmen showed in various ways their sympathy for their lonely and silent companion of whom they knew nothing save what his pinched, careworn and yearning eyes told. <br><br> One day the mail came in and the hermit was not there. This was so unusual that it led to considerable speculation among the boys. Then Roney, whose lead lay near the Alice, remembered that the hermit had not been to work that day or the day before, and when night came on and the keg in the corner remained unoccupied, the boys considered that investigation was necessary. <br><br> "Pards, I reckon the hermit may be a leetle off and might kinder need help," said Georgia, "an it sorter strikers me we might call in and see." <br><br> As this met the approval of all the men, Georgia and Roney started up to the Hermit's little cabin. A dim light crept around the edges of the old flour sack that acted as a curtain for the little square pane of glass constituting a window, and, after consultation, the two messengers concluded to take a peep before making their presence known. <br><br> Georgia put his face to the glass and peered intently within. The Hermit sait on the earthen floor enveloped in a torn and miserable blanket. His hat was off, and his long gray hair was tangled and unkempt. His eyes, which Georgia could plainly see as he sat nearly facing the window, combined with their usual pleading expression a sort of feverish glitter, and the whole attitude of the man was one of despair. In his hands, he held what appeared to be a photograph and an old letter, and he never moved his eyes from them. <br><br> The rest of the room that came within Georgia's field of vision betokened cleanliness, but at the same time extreme poverty for even that rough country. Georgia withdrew his head and his companion took a look, after which they both retreated some little distance into the timber and paused. "Well?" said Roney. "Deuced queer," said Georgia. "Kinder sick looking, eh?" Georgia nodded his head thoughtfully. "Let's see the boys about it," said Roney, and then they retraced their steps to the saloon. <br><br> The boys listened with interest to the report and pulled their beards and scratched their heads in attempts to obtain a solution as to what aided the Hermit. Many and various were the explanations given, and then they decided that Georgia and Roney had better go back and knock at the door and inquire, at any rate, if anything was wrong; so thereupon the two once more started up the trail. They knocked - first softly and then louder - but elicited no response or caused any show of life within, save the extinguishment immediately of the light. <br><br> "No use," whispered Roney, and without further word, they left the little cabin and its solitary occupant and joined their comrades. <br><br> The next day passed and the next, and the Hermit gave no signs of existence. That evening the mail came in, and among the letters was one, in a woman's hand, for John Harmer, Mineral City, San Juan county, Colorado. [unreadable line]…county, so far as the boys knew, but Georgia, after a moment's hesitation, put his shoulder to the door, and with as little noise as possible burst the wooden button off that served as a lock. The next instant and Georgia was in the room. The Hermit lay extended upon the floor, his face flushed and hot with fever, and his long, thin fingers nervously grasping and relacing again the torn blanket on which he rested. "What's the matter, old pard" said Georgia, as he raised the old man's head. The fevered eyes slowly turned toward the face, the emaciated fingers opened and the poor, lonely old fellow said huskily "Don't tell her!" "Who - tell who?" "Alice - the poor little thing - she don't know." "Thinking of his folks, in the States," muttered Georgia, and then tenderly and carefully he lifted the sick man in his arms and strode away to this own cabin. <br><br> The news of the Hermit's sickness spread through the camp so blankets and food came from all quarters for his use. The store was ransacked for the best it could afford. A terrible slaughtering of mountain grouse took place that rich broths might be made for the invalid. One man traveled sixteen miles to Silverton to seckure a can of peaches, and the men almost fought in their anxiety to act as nurses and watchers. Georgia thanked the boys and kept them away, admitting only one or two to aid him in the care of this old man. But despite all this attention the old fellow sank and sank, and it soon became evident that the mountain fever had one more victim. <br><br> One night Georgia sat smoking his pipe and moving. The owner of the letter had been found, for in his ravings the old man often mentioned the name Harmer, but the boys feared lest he should die before reading it, and this perplexed Georgia sadly. What was he to do with it and might it not contain matters of importance? Had the old man any friends or relatives living and where were they to be found? All these things and many more came flitting through his brain, and he did not hear his patient slowly raise himself in the bed and stare about him. The old man looked the room over and then his eyes resting on the burly form by the fire. "Georgia," he said. In an instant Georgia sprung to his feet and hastened to the bedside. "Why, pardner, durn it - yer - yer getting better, ain't you?" <br><br> The old man smiled wearily. "Tell me all about it," he said. Georgia briefly recounted the story of his illness, touching but lightly on what he had done, and laying great stress on the interest of the men. "But now, old man, you'll soon be up and among ‘em," he concluded, with a cheerful laugh. <br><br> "No," said the old fellow, with the same weary smile, "but - but I thank you." "Oh, nonsense - that's all right - you're only a leetle shook up, you know - it's natural, after being as far down as you've been. You'll soon be all right - cheer up, and don't let your sand run out; besides, I've got a letter for you." <br><br> "Letter - for me?" and the old man's face lighted up with an eagerness that sent a tremor through Georgia's honest heart, lest the missive, after all, shoul dnot be for him. He got it, however, and gave it into the trembling hands. <br><br> "Yes, yes," said theold fellow, "it's her writing, I know - like her mother's - oh, how long it has been coming - but now --" and his pooer weak, shaking hands vainly strove to open it. "Let me," said Georgia kindly. The old man let him take the letter and then said in an [unreadable] even tone: "Hold on, Georgia." Georgia paused. <br><br> "Georgia," said the old fellow, looking him steadily in the eye. "you've been kind to me - very kind - and I've got nothing to show for it - nothing but confidence. I'm going to tell you something, Georgia, and then - then you can read that letter and you'll understand all the good news it contains." <br><br> He paused a moment and closed his eyes. Then he continued: "Georgia, I was a likely sort of young chap years ago, not such a good-for nothing galoot as I am now, and I married, Georgia - married the best girl in old Pennsylvania. I was mighty happy - too happy, partner - that's what made it go so hard when she died. We had one child - a little girl - and we called her Alice - my wife's name. She was a wee little thing when her mother died and so very, very pretty. It was hard times on me, Georgia, and somehow I got to drinking. I know it did me no good and I know it wasn't right, but a man doesn't reason much when he's desperate like, and so I drank and drank. I sold out everything and put my girl, my little Alice, with my wife's brother. He had a family of his own, and what could a lonely, broken-heartd man like me do for a dear little girl? Georgia, if they'd come to me and talked good and gentle they could have made a man of me, but they didn't - They wouldn't let me come into their house, and they said that I'd killed by wife by drinking. Georgia it was a lie. I never drank a drop till she died, and I wouldn't have done it then if I'd had any one to sympathize with me. But I hadn't; I, was alone in the world, along with my great grief, and-" and the old man's voice broke, and his poor thin hands went nervously over the blanket, while two tears stole from his hot eyes and trickling down the pale, pinched cheeks, lost themselves in the gray hairs of his beard. <br><br> "Well, Georgia," he said presently, "they got an order from the courts giving the guardianship of my child, my Alice, to her [unreadable]... Georgia, if but one kind word had be said - only one - I wouldn't have been the fool I was. Well, I left and came West. I stopped drinking. I have never touched a drop since Alice was taken from me. You believe me, Georgia. "Yes," said Georgia. <br><br> "After awhile I wrote to her uncle and I told him of my new life and asked him if I couldn't at least write to my little girl. That was in '67, and she was ten years old. He took no notice of my letter ---" "He's a ---" broke in Georgia, but suddenly checked himself, before concluding. <br><br> "Then I thought perhaps he hadn't got it, so I got my money together and went East. But he had, Georgia, he had. It was no use though. He wouldn't believe in me and wouldn't let me see my little girl. He said she should never know but he was her father, at least until she was of age. I tried the courts, but I spent all my money without changing he decree. Then I gave it up and cambe back West again. I gained one thing though. The judge said that when Alice was twenty-one she sould be offered the choice of coming to me, her father, or remaining with her guardian. I had to rest satisfied, and I worked and worked to get money for my little girl. I scrimped some Georgia, but there's nearly $12,00 in bank for her now," and the old man's voice and manner were full of pride. <br><br> "She was twenty-one last June, and I've been waiting for her letter. I knew it would come. Oh, Georgia if she only knew how I have worked for her; how I have waited alone, but still working and waiting; but she has written now, and tomorrow or next day, I must start East. We will be very, very happy together and - but read her letter - you know all now." And the lids closed again over the fevered eyes, and the poor old man softly murmured, "little Alice, little Alice." <br><br> Georgia tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter, and the old man feebly drew nearer in joyful, happy eagerness. "My uncle," read Georgia unsteadily, "has informed me of your relationship to me. I have only to say that I regret that the man whose habits killed my mother should also bear the title of my father. I sincerely hope that the Almighty will pardon where we cannot." <br><br> Georgia turned towards the old man. "My God," he said, "the Hermit is dead." |