There was another neighbour of ours at Silverado, small but very active, a destructive fellow. This was a black, ugly fly⁠—a bore, the Hansons called him⁠—who lived by hundreds in the boarding of our house. He entered by a round hole, more neatly pierced than a man could do it with a gimlet, and he seems to have spent his life in cutting out the interior of the plank, but whether as a dwelling or a storehouse, I could never find. When I used to lie in bed in the morning for a rest⁠—we had no easy-chairs in Silverado⁠—I would hear, hour after hour, the sharp cutting sound of his labours, and from time to time a dainty shower of sawdust would fall upon the blankets. There lives no more industrious creature than a bore.