Of the intervening country as a whole, especially from Villacito, it may justly be said, not only is it practically a desert, but even what streams it has seem to be slowly but surely disappearing. There were evidences frequently, that the country had formerly been much better watered than now, and the population--sparse as it was--appeared to be diminishing. After leaving Anaheim, there was only a scattered ranch here and there, every ten or twelve miles apart, of the rudest character--sometimes not even these--where coarse groceries, canned fruits and vegetables, and whiskey and mescal, were kept for sale to Indians and passing travellers. These had mostly been stage-stations on the great Butterfield Overland Route before the war, and when this broke that up, these ranchmen still remained, hoping something would "turn up." The station at Carissa Creek was a good representative of this, and likewise of many others. "Carissa Creek" itself is one of southern California's "blind" streams, like so many in Arizona, beginning and ending nowhere in particular--without either source or mouth apparently. Issuing from a sand-heap, it terminates in another a few miles away; but just here at the station is a shallow creek--a few yards wide, by six inches deep--tainted, of course with alkali. The station itself is the adobe remains of an old stage-station, whose roof was all gone, and as a substitute the enterprising proprietor had thrown some poles across, and covered them with willows and coarse grass. This turned the sun somewhat, and the easy-going proprietor said, "'Twer'nt no use, no how, to roof agin rain; 'cause, you bet, stranger, no rain ever gits yer!" His forlorn structure, part of which was used for a chicken-roost, also served its owner as bar-room, grocery, kitchen, parlor, bed-room, etc., and yet contained only one rude apartment, altogether. "Mine host" here was a Texan, who somehow had strayed away out here, and dropped down at Carissa Creek--he hardly knew how. He "didn't think it much of a place, that's a fact; no how, stranger! But then, you see, I'm yer; and it's a heap of trouble to move elsewhar! Besides, yer know, I couldn't recommend nobody else to buy me out, no how! Somebody has got to live at Carissa Creek, anyhow; and why not me?" His philosophy, under the circumstances, seemed delicious, worthy of Mr. Mark Tapley himself, and, of course, we had not the heart to disturb it.