And as that reaper stoops again To throw his hook around the grain, And sinks amid the sea of gold, To rise when hands no longer hold; So bend I to my task anew, And undismayed my course pursue, ’Till clip on clip, and sheaf on sheaf, Shall bear me to the farthest leaf. A VISIT TO BENICIA. To-day I had occasion to visit Benicia. The place is situated on the Straits of Carquinez. Not far from the town the Government Arsenal and Barracks are situated. And as a striking proof of the loyal and law-abiding spirit of the citizens, I may mention the fact, that all the government property above alluded to is defended by two soldiers, a corporal—who, by the way, has a wooden leg—and a high private. While stopping there, I noticed they were engaged in the pleasurable task of firing a salute of twenty-one guns, in commemoration of Bunker Hill. They were having a busy time of it, for while the wooden-legged corporal was loading and discharging the cannon, the private was forwarding the ammunition from the magazine—about a quarter of a mile distant—in a wheelbarrow. “If soldiers will do this in time of peace,” I said to myself, “what would they not accomplish in time of war?” and I walked away from the spot, congratulating myself for having invested in Government bonds. The town, in all likelihood, would never have been heard of outside of the State of California, had it not been for the brave “Benicia Boy.” Here it was that he swung the blacksmith’s heavy sledge, and practiced the first rudiments of the pugilistic profession, which subsequently gained him his world-wide notoriety. Many of the citizens are yet pointed out to the visitor as parties who at some period of their life served as a sand bag on which the muscular “Boy” hardened his knuckles. As I gazed upon the scattered village,—for it is no more,—I mused, how a man should come forth from such a paltry place to “awe” the world. For as Goliath challenged the hosts of Israel, so came the brave “Benicia Boy” and dared creation’s millions. And as the youthful shepherd, afterwards king, rose up and smote the overweening giant with a stone, till all his brain oozed forth, so from Albion’s Isle a youthful “King,” smote the western champion in the midriff with his mawley, and all his wind gushed out! [Illustration: ONE OF HEENAN’S MEMENTOES.] After searching some time to discover the blacksmith shop where the pugilist used to work, I learned that it was long since torn down and a church now occupied the site. But an old gentleman who kept a small boarding house, conducted me to an ancient pump, at which he said the “Boy” on several occasions bathed his nose after having a bout with some person who didn’t let him have things all his own way, and there I wept my tears of tribute.