"I was only going to shave the back of your head," he said. I found to my horror that my whiskers had entirely disappeared, and he had not only cut my hair as closely as it could be cut with a pair of scissors, but he had run it over with a sort of small horse-clipper. I caught him in time to stop the further operation of shaving. Judging by the many naked polls I afterwards saw in the hotel, I concluded that it is the fashion in Omaha to go about with your head shaved. It is a compliment, I suppose, which those who have hair pay to the bald-headed ones. The Omaha barber has quite destroyed the youthful appearance which I flattered myself I had acquired since I have been travelling on this Continent. My friend M., when I came out of that terrible barber's hands, passed me by without knowing me; and when at last he began to have a suspicion that the bald individual before him was I, he exclaimed, "What on earth have you been doing? An hour and a quarter of our precious time have you wasted in that barber's shop, and you come out like a bald-headed boiled lobster. Our friends in Chicago, Boston, and New York certainly won't know you." Time the destroyer is also a happy restorer, and now while I am writing, a fortnight after the event, my whiskers have already given indication of a returning crop, and my hair has grown long enough to enable me to identify myself. I trust that after the sea voyage, and when I get home, my wife will also be able to identify me. The rascal charged me seventy-five cents (three shillings) for this personal disfigurement. I was very glad to get away from Omaha the same day at 5.30 p.m. We travelled by the Chicago and Rock Island line, and we reached Chicago, a distance of 500 miles, the next afternoon at three o'clock. On Monday it rained in torrents all day, and Tuesday was not much better. On Tuesday night at 8.40 I started for Boston, leaving my friend M. behind for two or three days. This was the first time we had separated since we started together from Euston on our outward journey. The line I now travelled on was "The Michigan Central." About seven o'clock next morning we reached Niagara, where the train stopped a few minutes to give us a look at "The Falls." As I have no more superlative adjectives left in my vocabulary, I will tell you what the "Michigan Central" has to say about Niagara. It far surpasses my most sublime efforts. "THE NIAGARA FALLS ROUTE. "'So long as the waters of that mighty river thunder down to the awful depths below, so long as the rush and roar, the surge and foam, and prismatic spray of nature's cataphractic masterpiece remain to delight and awe the human soul, thousands and tens of thousands of beauty-lovers and grandeur-worshippers will journey over the only railroad from which it can be seen. _There is but one Niagara Falls on earth, and but one direct great railway to it._'