A mine had been worked formerly above South Zeal. It had been under a "captain," of practical experience but no scientific knowledge. It yielded a small but steady profit. Then the directors and shareholders became impatient. They discharged the old captain, and sent down a fellow who had passed through the mining college, had scientific geology and mineralogy at his fingers' ends. He scouted the machinery that had been hitherto in use, sneered at the old-fashioned methods that had been pursued, boasted of what he was going to do, revolutionised the mine, reorganised the plant, had all the old machinery cast aside, or sold for old iron; had down new and costly apparatus--then came heavy calls on the shareholders--renewed calls--and there was an end of profits, and as _finis_ a general collapse. Some years ago a great fraud was committed in the neighbourhood. It was rumoured that gold was to be found in the gozen--the refuse from the mines. All who had old mines on their land sent up specimens to London, and received reports that there was a specified amount of gold in what was forwarded. Some, to be sure that there was no deception, went up with their specimens and saw them ground, washed, and analysed, and the gold extracted. So large orders were sent up for gozen-crushing machines. These came down, were set to work, and no gold was then found. The makers of the machines had introduced gold-dust into the water that was used in the washing of the crushed stone. I made use of this incident in my novel _John Herring_. But to return to the singers. Here is a song of local origin, which, however, I did not obtain from these South Zeal singers. I must premise that the local pronunciation of Okehampton is Ockington. At Ockington, in Devonshire, Old vayther lived vor many a year. And I along wi' he did dwell Nigh Dartimoor 'tes knawed vull well. Diddle-diddle-dee. It happ'nd on a zartain day, Vour score o' sheep--they rinned astray. Zeth vayther, Jack go arter'n, yū. Zez I--Be darned if ee'r I dū. Diddle-diddle-dee. Purvokèd at my sāacy tongue, A dish o' brāath at me he flung. Then fu' o' wrath, as poppy red I knacked old vayther on the head. Diddle-diddle-dee. Then drayed wor I to Ex't'r jail, There to be tried--allowed no bail, And at next Easter 'zizes I Condemnèd was therefor to die. Diddle-diddle-dee. Young men and maydens all, I pray Take warnin' by my tragedy. Rin arter sheep when they are strayed, And don't knack vaythers on the 'ead. Diddle-diddle-dee.