RAREFY    The old panhandler grunted as he got to his feet. His joints seemed to creak as he stood and little clouds of dust drifted off of his clothing, which was yellowed and musty from having gone so long unwashed. In one hand he held a sifting pan that he'd just withdrawn from the trough. It contained no more than a cup of soaked silt, scraped carefully from the bottom of the raised, wooden channel. The old-timer reached down and stirred the silt carefully about with his cracked, worn fingers and peered at the damp mess through a squinted, yet wisened eye. He knew exactly what he was looking for. He'd seen the familiar, coveted glint through the grime. There! His hand closed around a tiny rock no bigger than a pea. The man withdrew it and rinsed it carefully in the water flowing through the trough, tossing the pan aside. Then, he brought the tiny rock close to his face, examining it with a trained eye and tugging at his beard. After a few long moments, his cracked lips part and he issued forth a dry cackle of triumph. Gold. There was no mistaking it. Oh, it wasn't of the highest grade, but the old panhandler knew a few tricks that would RAREFY the tiny pellet and make it worth just a little more. Grinning, he pocketed his prize and retrieved the pan, slowly resuming the tedious sifting process.

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