This was our last night together as a party. The Professor had signified his intention of remaining a few days longer upon the Solomon, for the purpose of studying the surrounding country. Shamus had asked a discharge, in order to engage as farm hand for Mr. Sydney--an Irish Jacob taking to agriculture as a means of obtaining his Rachel. We received numerous invitations to divide our party for the night among the settlers, and, glad to enjoy again the luxury of a roof, Sachem and I gratefully accepted the hospitabilities of a neighboring log-cabin among the trees. The next day was busily occupied in separating from our loads such things as the Professor and Shamus required for their further sojourn in the Solomon valley. The morning following, we bade them both good-bye, and have seen neither leader or servant since. With but one mishap, the remainder of our party reached safely the more familiar haunts of civilization. Doctor Pythagoras was the victim of our exceptional misfortune. While attempting to mount his transformed prize-fighter, the metamorphosed bully struck out from the shoulder, and the doctor was floored. We found it necessary to carry him upon a rude stretcher to Solomon City, and provide him with a section on a sleeping car for transit to the East. As we shook his hand at parting, and bade him a last good-bye, he exclaimed, "My young friends, I can not die yet. I shall recover and outlive you all. I believe in the theory of the 'survival of the fittest.'" Ever since our return, the tide of emigration, pouring onward from the Atlantic, has lapped further and further out upon the surface of the plains; and still, as truly now as when good old Bishop Berkeley first wrote the line, "the Star of Empire westward takes its way." * * * * * While I was preparing these notes for the press, I received the following characteristic letter from Sachem, dated at his haunt in New York. It was at first a puzzle, but I found the key in a note inclosed by him, which he had lately received from the Professor. SACHEM'S LETTER. To crack a head and break a heart, Are known as Paddy's forte; In kitchen, jail, or low-back cart-- No matter where--he 'll court. To don a rig, and dance a jig, Attend a wake or wedding, He 'll sell his own or neighbor's pig And only rag of bedding. He lives a happy, careless life, Hand to mouth, and heart in hand; Ready for either love or strife, Building castles on the sand. With peck of trouble ever full, Good measure, running over, He deals in stock--the Irish bull, And with it, lives in clover. Love's labor is the only taste That Paddy's mind inherits: He thinks, where maidens run to waste, The harem has its merits. And so Dobeen, upon his course, Love's gallop quick began; The gal up on the other horse, He courted, as they ran.