Explore "Kirkham's Find" by Mary Gaunt on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
For a blow of his pick, Sorter caved in the side, And he looked and turned sick, Then he trembled and cried, For you see the derned cuss had struck--"water?"-- Beg your pardon, young man, there you lied!
It was gold,--in the quartz, And it ran all alike; And I reckon five oughts Was the worth of that strike.