The train that bore us westward toward James Peak puffed along in a steep canon beside the gushing waters of Clear Creek, a creek no longer clear, but green-grey in color because of the tailings from the new-fangled mills that had been introduced to treat the ore. I was disappointed in the looks of that water and I wondered if there were to be other disappointments for me ahead, in those great mountains. But I put the thought aside and went back to the vision of myself as an elegant social leader in Denver— How soon would these mountains answer my prayers—or would they answer at all? _Chapter Two_ The miners in the Central City district were changing shifts at noon. In the midst of the turmoil Harvey and I got off the train at Blackhawk and caught the stage for the mile’s ride up Gregory Gulch after being handed a note from Mr. Doe directing us to a boarding house where rooms were awaiting. As the miners scuffed along the dusty road in their heavy boots, swinging lunch pails, they drifted into groups. From nearly every one of these burst song, each group lending an air to the intermingled medley. I was able to follow some of the melodies, which were of such a haunting quality I leaned forward and tapped the driver on the back. “What are those men singing?” I asked. “Cornish songs. The miners are all Cousin Jacks hereabouts—that is, that ain’t Irish. That’s why you see so much good stonework in them retaining walls and buildings around here. When we git into Central, look up at our school ’n ’Piscopal Church. Built by Cornishmen, or Cousin Jacks, as we calls ’em. They brought the knack from the old country.” “But how do they have such splendid voices?” “Oh, them’s natural. Real musical people—and then all the high-class people gets them into singin’ societies and sech. Last March a group put on ‘The Bohemian Girl’ and now we’re goin’ to build the only Opry House in Colorado for jest sech goin’s-on. When we don’t have shows goin’ through, we have some sort of doin’s of our own. We’re the up-and-comin’est camp in the West. Got some hankerin’ for higher things.” I looked about me again after I heard this. It sounded odd to me that a mining camp should be interested in culture but it also seemed encouraging. I was thrilled to think they were building an opera house and that the town specialized in amateur theatricals. I felt certain I had come to the right place. Besides winning love and riches in this strange setting, I would also get my long-cherished wish to go on the stage!