eight o'clock in the morning
He thought , with a pang of regret , that his lines would never again fall in such glorious places . He knew the cañon by heart ; he had seen it in every phase of its summer beauty , by day and by night , in sunshine and in storm , and now the autumn had come and the sensitive green of the aspens had turned to yellow . They gleamed along the brook-side ; they showed like an outcrop of gold on the wall of rock over there , and in among the blue-green pines ; their yellow leaves strewed the ground on which he stood . It was eight o'clock in the morning , and he was about to do his last blasting . There was nobody up the cañon , and nobody was likely to come from below for an hour yet . The big boulder was not to thrust itself into the road any more ; another minute , and all that protruding side of it would be blown off and there would be room for two teams to pass each other . Hark !