risked their lives to reach this wild
land of desire, who had come from such church-going hamlets as Whitby,
such Scottish-Presbyterian centres as Toronto and Montreal, hardly knew
whether they were dreaming or living in a country of crazy pixies who
delved in mud and water all day and weltered in champagne all night.
The Cariboo poet sang their sentiments in these words:

I ken a body made a strike.
He looked a little lord.
He had a clan o' followers
Amang a needy horde.

{96}

Whane'er he'd enter a saloon,
You'd see the barkeep smile--
His lordship's humble servant he
Wi'out a thought o' guile!

A twalmonth passed an' a' is gane,
Baith freends and brandy bottle!
An' noo the puir soul's left alane
Wi' nocht to weet his throttle!

In Barkerville, which became the centre of Cariboo, saloons and
dance-halls grew up overnight. Pianos were packed in on mules at a
rate of a dollar a pound from Quesnel. Champagne in pint bottles sold
at two ounces of gold. Potatoes retailed at ninety dollars a
hundredweight. Nails were cheap at a dollar a pound. Milk was
retailed frozen at a dollar a pound. Boots still cost fifty dollars.
Such luxuries as mirrors and stoves cost as high as seven hundred
dollars each. The hurdy-gurdy girls with true German thrift charged
ten dollars or more a dance--not the stately waltz, but a wild fling to
shake the rafters and tire out the stoutest miners.

A newspaper was published in Barkerville. And it was in it that James
Anderson of Scotland first issued _Jeames's Letters to Sawney_.

Your letter cam' by the express,
Eight shillin's carriage, naethin' less!
{97}
You maybe like to ken what pay
Miners get here for ilka day?
Jus' twa poond sterling', sure as death--
It should be four, between us baith--
For gin ye coont the cost o' livin',
There's naethin' left to gang an' come on.
Sawney, had ye yer taters here
And neeps and carrots--dinna speer
What price; though I might tell ye weel,
Ye'd ainly think me a leein' chiel.

The first twa years I spent out here
Werena sae ill ava';
But hoo I've lived syne; my freend,
There's little need to blaw.
Like fitba' knockit back and fore,
That's lang in reachin' goal,
Or feather blown by ilka wind
That whistles 'tween each pole--
E'en sae my mining life has been
For mony a weary day.

Later, when the dance-hall became the theatre of Barkerville, Ja