In November of this year I made a somewhat perilous trip with team to Fort Winnebago, at the portage of the Fox and Wisconsin rivers. The weather was cold and the military road, much of the distance, covered with snow. There was scarcely a trail over the rolling prairie to guide me. Exposure brought on the chills as I was returning. Fatigued, sick and suffering, I coiled myself on the top of the load. The second day, as the sun was setting, I came in sight of Parish's Grove, but the horses were unwilling to obey my guidance. Coming to a fork in the road they insisted on going to the right. I pulled them to the left. Had I been guided by their "horse sense" they would have brought me in a few moments to the door of Parish's hotel. As it was, I drove on until far in the night, when we came to a steep hill, two steep for descent in the wagon. I unhitched the team, loaded them with the portable things in the wagon to keep them from the wolves that were howling around, mounted one of the horses and descended the hill and found myself at Parish's door, the very place I had been trying to find for a day and a night. Lieut. Caldwell, quartermaster at Fort Crawford, received the load, and learning something of the perils of the journey, gave me eighty dollars instead of the forty he had promised. RETURN TO MAINE. During the spring and summer of 1840, I fulfilled heavy hay and wood contracts for the fort, and in the autumn of that year concluded to revisit my early home in Maine. I set out September 23d, and reached Chicago in seven days, traveling with a team. I traveled thence by steamer to Buffalo, by canal boat to Rochester, by railroad and stage to Albany and Boston, by railroad to Lowell, and by stage to Tamworth, New Hampshire. After spending four years amidst the prairies of the West it was indeed a pleasure to look again upon the grand ranges of mountains in this part of New England. When eleven years of age I had lived where I could look upon these mountains, and now to their grandeur was added the charm of old association. I looked with pleasure once more upon "Old Ossipee," Coroway Peak, and White Face. Time had written no changes upon these rugged mountains. There were cottages and farms on the mountain side. Sparkling rivulets gleamed in the sunlight, as they found their way, leaping from rock to rock, to the valleys beneath. Tamworth is situated on beautiful ridges amongst these mountain ranges. Near this place is the old family burying ground containing the graves of my grand parents and other near relatives. These mountain peaks seemed to stand as sentinels over their last resting place. I remained at Tamworth a short time, visited the graves of my kindred, and on October 20th pursued my journey to Bloomfield, Maine, my old home. I found great changes. Some kind friends remained, but others were gone. The old home was changed and I felt that I could not make my future home here. The great West seemed more than ever attractive.