Page:California Inter Pocula.djvu/390



One of  these  waifs  would  start  out  in  the  mornlno; and visit  all  the  law  offices  ;  then  he  would  hang around the  courts  and  public  offices ;  or  he  would  go from  shop  to  shop  begging  a  situation. Only give him something-  to  do,  soniethino;  on  which  to  feed  the fire of  his  ambition,  and  no  matter  how  hard  the work or  how  small  the  pay  he  would  gladly  under- take it. Give him  a  trial;  he  was  apt  and  honest, and he  must  soon  have  work  or  starve. Day after day, from  morning  till  night,  and  every  day  for  weeks and months,  with  heart  in  liis  throat,  and  big  shame- faced tears now  and  then  slipping  out  from  under  his eye-lashes, his  very  soul  sinking  within  him,  he  would make his  mournful  rounds. All was  life  and  bustle, and merry  money-making;  fortune's  favorites  jostled him as  they  hurried  past ;  only  he  with  stifled  long- ings was doomed  to  walk  the  streets  like  a  beggar and an  outcast. Yet not  alone,  for  there  were  hun- dreds of others  like  him,  every  steamer  emptjdng  out  a fresh  supply,  and  the  merchants  could  not  furnish  places for twenty  applicants  a  day. Often a  hundred  of these  sad  earnest  faces  mio-ht  have  been  seen  stand- ing at  one  time,  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  be- fore a store  waiting  for  the  door  to  open  in  order  to answer  an  advertisement  for  a  bookkeeper. At leno-th heart-sick  and  diso-usted  they  would  scatter off, some  finally  to  do  the  work  of  porter  or  day- laborer, or  to  drive  a  cart  or  milk- wagon,  or  to  work on a  farm ;  others,  and  by  far  the  larger  number,  go- ins; to  the  mines. There the  wanderer,  standinsf  in the  cold  runnino;  snow-stream  of  the  Sierra,  workinsf in the  river-beds  or  on  the  canon-side  until  his  limbs are numb  and  sharp  rheumatic  pains  shoot  through his shoulders,  at  night  tossing  in  sleepless  unrest  on his  hard  bed,  or  gazing  in  heartful  self-pity  on  the stars thinking  of  home,  with  crushed  enthusiasm  frets his days  and  nights  away,  at  morning  wishing  it  were night and  at  night  wishing  the  morning  were  come, broodino- over  his  lost    estate    and    the    unrewarded