This is the innocent, petrified blood of victims which stained a
ledge of porphyry when it ran down the mountain side in torrents, an
awful sacrifice to the ancient idols of lust and ignorance. A kindly
warning to you, fellow-prospectors and miners, who delve in the
vitals of Mother Earth! Beware Thumb Butte, beware the district of
the Sphinx! Have a care, for you know not what you may encounter in
this mystic neighborhood! Shun strange gods and set up no idols in
your hearts, as you value the salvation of your souls. But if your
mine lies in this district, be fearful not to excite the anger of the
gnomes of the mountain. Charge lightly, lest you blast the bottom out
of your mine. Disturb not the slumber of the spirits of the hills
lest they throw a horse into the shaft and push your pay-ore down a
thousand feet.
Now, I who am what I am, a servant of the Sphinx, have erected the
shrine of my household gods in the beautiful town, which lies in its
shadow and is held in its paw. Even now is the Sphinx weaving on the
web of my destiny. I hope I may be spared the cumbersome burden of
the wealth of a Rockefeller, who is said to possess a billion dollars
for every hair on his head. One thousandth part of his wealth would
suffice to reward me amply.
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