And then there were those many shaft houses that I knew as a child and girl where my father was the consulting mining engineer. I cannot remember the shaft houses being built; but I can remember them later with the whir of the hoists, the sharp sound of the bell signals, and the clang of the primitive ore buckets and go-devils as they took us down the shafts. I can remember the speed of the go-devil in the Little Jonny mine near Leadville when in 1927 John Cortellini (then mayor of the town and superintendent of the mine) ushered us down with his courtly Italian manner. He expected me to be frightened at being brushed so rapidly past the crooked rock wall. But I thought it was fun. I do not think it is fun today when I hear that the silent and deserted Little Jonny shaft house has been broken into and some of the machinery stolen. I know at what human and financial cost that machinery was put there. It should be left in peace until that rosy day when precious minerals and base metals are once again in demand. Speaking of cost, no visitor to our collection of towns but must have wondered about finances. Only a gambler could understand them. It is my private contention that more money has been sunk into the mountains of Colorado than any wealth they have yielded up. But this is the practical and prosaic view of one who has heard too often about the millions that would pour in tomorrow when the vein widened out or when the drift was extended just ten more feet. Mining and narrow gauge railroading were for gamblers, and no one pretended otherwise. They had no illusions about its being an industry or a business. My father and his cronies always spoke of “the mining game.” But for a game it carried a deal of heartbreak. If you take time to look at the cemeteries of the mining towns, you cannot fail to notice the numbers of babies who could not survive in this harsh land nor the number of young men killed by accidents other than shootings, nor in the “Boot Hills” the number of unhappy young women who went the laudanum route. There is sadness, as well as serenity and romantic nostalgia, hanging in the aura of these high-country towns. Memories of humor—raw pioneer humor—hang there also. The old-timers used their boundless energy for play and for practical jokes as well as for work. I remember a passage from the _Silver World_ that was written about Eureka in April, 1877, which pictured their superhuman efforts at entertainment. A dance had been scheduled in one of the cabins, according to the correspondent who described the affair thus: