“At seven o’clock in the morning, the market master mounts a stool, and business commences. An eager crowd surrounds him, of all colors and nations, yelling, talking, laughing, and making themselves merry, when suddenly a dead silence falls on the reckless assemblage, as a pail of eggs are held up to their gaze. ‘Now, how much for the eggs, at per dozen?—one shilling bid?’ A dozen heads bob in the affirmative. Two shillings; three. The price rises, until the man with the long purse becomes their owner. Up goes a pumpkin. A rush by the crowd. Every eye seeks that of the auctioneer. Every man wants to bid; but in the twinkling of an eye it’s gone. ‘For how much?’ an outsider asks of another. ‘Cheap at three “bob”’ (shillings), he answers. Up goes another pumpkin, and another, until very likely a whole wagon-load is disposed of, at prices which make the old Boer’s face wrinkle with smiles. Next there is a scramble to get exactly over a heap of fine potatoes which are to be sold. Two or three weaker ones get upset in the rush, while a dense circle of giant and muscular diggers surrounds the center of attraction. Of course the unlucky outsiders have no chance of catching the market-master’s eye, and, in self-defense, form an opposition circle around the next pile, each one mentally calculating the amount of ‘tin’ he is prepared to stake on the produce before him. This exciting work goes on until nine o’clock, when the crowd of diggers, having purchased everything eatable, leave for their claims, while the lucky owners of the wagons crowd into the little market-office, eager to receive the price of their loads, and to ‘trek’ away from the city of tents.” [Sidenote: STRUGGLING WITH NATURE.]