Some of the most engrossing days of my childhood were spent in exploring
these places with my two boy companions. We would fell an oak sapling
across the mouth of the hole, tie a rope, usually my pony's lariat, to
the tree and slide down it to explore the depths below. If we came to a
side drift we would swing into it, light our candle-lanterns and go
looking for gold. We were always sure that we should yet find a
forgotten cache of gold - perhaps guarded by a lonely skeleton - but we
never did!

About all we ever got out of it was snake-frights (naturally, sans
alcoholic origin), until we were sure, the snakes were not rattlers;
baby bats, which invariably tried to bite us; swallows' eggs, wet feet,
and a good spanking if the family happened to find out what we had been
up to.

I suppose that it really was a very dangerous pastime, for although
sometimes the drift tunnel led us to a sunlit opening on the hillside,
more often we reached a blind end and were forced to return to the main
shaft and to "shin" up the rope, with from ten to forty feet of inky
water waiting to catch us if we fell.

Or we went up the river to "swing the rocker" for old Ali Quong. He
always pretended to drive us away, bellowing fiercely as soon as he
caught sight of us, "Whassa malla you? Alle time you come see Ali Quong!
Ketchem too-oo much tlouble for po-or old Chinaman" - the whole time
with his wrinkled, brown face wreathed in smiles.

There we stayed the long summer afternoon, swinging the rocker while
Quong shoveled in the pebbly dirt, watching him take the black sand,
which held the gold, off the canvas with his little spade-like scoop,