ADDISON'S FLAT.

Westport Times, Volume III, Issue 486, 3 April 1869, Page 2

ADDISON'S FLAT.

(FROM OUR OffS CORRESPONDENT.) MAP.cn 31

Of events there is little worth chronicling. Easter has passed away with slight holiday ostentation. I suppose the miners have had a surfeit of holidays lately, and steady work is now the order of the day. I notice on the Old Cement Lead, parties busy erecting huts, carrying the timber for this purpose from the old township, where may be seen many dismantled roofs. It is thus evident that parties so employed mean settling, and it speaks well for the resources of the Cement Lead for many months to come. It is upon this lead is situated O'Toole's ten-acre block, the lease of which, according to advertisement, has been granted, and consequently operations will be the immediate result. I hear of a party commencing to groundsluice some abandoned ground on O'Loughlin's Flat, and, from the opinion of many, it will pay well. Winter is approaching, and the more prudent are providing accordingly for a winter's residence. There is no ice, not much snow, nor very heavy frosts,

yet winter is a hard time of the year on the West Coast to he carrying the " drum," and I think that unless some important rush breaks out, the present residents will winter here. " Some new rush" —that is the peg many of us hang our hopes upon. It is amusing to hear a digger expressing his opinion of lands he had heard the rumor of gold being found in. It don't matter whether it is the Cape or Carpentaria, Cheffoo or Ceylon. "With the voice of conviction he will assert of one place that he is sure it will turn out well, or, according to his mood, another will say, " Not it; it will never be any good; it is too long about it." Wars, and the rumors thereof, may have superlative attraction for many. The crash of empires, the deposition of kings, or the 'wild torrents of revolution, may follow their destinies unheeded for aught we care. Gold, Sir, is our politics, and almost our religion. A scrawl of a letter received from a mate on some new ground importing its richness, it matters not whether he is one mile distant or ten thousand, will create a greater furore than the hottest of Router's telegrams. But, like the old hunters who have seen their fleetest days, many of us shall leave the chase, contented to hear only the distant sound of the huntsman's horn. Then, perhaps, such men as "Native Industry " will employ us to catch eels and whitebait or any other of the finny tribe, bar sharks; they are too amphibious for me. I have seen some fine specimens on the banks of the large rivers of the West Coast. They said they "was'nt" sharks, but Idid not believe them. My mate, Bill, says " they are only a miniature resemblance to some ' boomers' he has seen at Nelson." To a shade we are not particular. With very little provocation we would off shoes and after Maori hens if " Native Industry" will find a market. Or we will gather flax, build a mill, and make ropes to take a turn round some of the bip sharks. In fact, play up " Old G-ooseberry " generally. For the honor of the West Coast our hearts are full of patriotic fire. Talk of bleeding, Sir, 'tis downright murder the West Coast is getting. Exports, gold only, imports everything. "Up lads and at them." What! Obstacles. Where ? In the air, like Banquo's ghost.