Letters from Home

How often have I stood in our shop door watching those homesick miners as they waited for the coming of Russell and Major's teams, hoping to receive letters from kinsmen and friends in the East, and perhaps also expecting to receive remittances so that they might be able to return to their homes wiser, and certainly sadder, men.

At such times when we had reason to believe the wagon was near at hand, the street near the post office would be thronged with anxious-looking, expectant men, many of whom I have seen trembling as with an ague fit, while watching the postmaster sort out the mail matter for delivery.

Then long lines would be formed, reaching far up the street, the men waiting patiently, moving pace by pace, being perhaps two or three hours before they could gain the post-office window, to find, in many cases, that there was nothing for them. I have seen men, who had failed to receive any word from the loved ones at home, turn away with heartsickness written plainly on their faces.

You must bear in mind that we of Auraria considered our town much the more important of the two, because we had a post office and Russell and Major's storehouses, while Denver claimed no such elegances of civilization. They on the east side of the creek, however, had a hotel, not much better to be sure than a log building with a canvas roof, perhaps thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long; but nevertheless it was a hotel, and we in Auraria were decidedly jealous because we could boast of no such structure.