CHARLES GUYON. 183 



through somehow, and as they wanted to dance we 

 played for them until morning, after we washed up. 

 They had never had such dance music, and they wanted 

 us to promise to come again, which we did, and had a 

 grand reception." 



Once when we were discussing the chances of sinking 

 a shaft in a new place he burst out laughing. I waited 

 to hear what the cause of this hilarity was, and as soon 

 as he could pull himself together he tried to say, between 

 shrieks: "Bones asked why this troupe of minstrels was 

 like a gang of burglars which had been discovered. Ha, 

 ha! ho, ho! Oh, I can't tell it. But the answer was 

 because we he, he! Oh, my! because because we're 

 spotted!" And then he couldn't stop. A roll on the 

 ground and a kicking of heels was the only sedative, and 

 it always got in its quieting work if no one started a 

 laugh ; if they did it took longer. 



I think Charley never tired of this yarn, for he would 

 laugh all the time until he cried; it was the great event 

 in his uneventful life. 



He was as happy as that happy race, the French- 

 Canadian, usually is happy if it rained or if the day was 

 bright ; happy in luck of any kind, if he had strings for his 

 fiddle and rheumatism and the toothache kept away. In 

 my sketch in Forest and Stream I presumed that he was 

 dead. Judge Seaton has written me that Charley is still 

 fiddling away in Highland, Iowa County, Wis., "happy 

 as ever and vigorous." As this goes to the printer I am 

 waiting for an answer from my old-time, honest and 

 cheerful companion in the lead mines. 



