The Scotch are a superstitious folk, and up to the age of fourteen I was raised in an atmosphere of superstition. They had signs and omens, and attributed a personality to everything, animate and inanimate. While they denied a belief in spirits and hob-goblins, I am satisfied these things influenced their lives. I remember two old crones at an uncle's, wizened up old maids, that I think were no relation, but just lived there, who used to tell us little ones spook and ghost stories until I was afraid to go to bed in the next room, or out of doors at night. It seemed to be in the blood and Walter Scott's books are full of it. This may explain in a way my hope that something would happen that would bring our little one back to health again. My frequent trips to the post and sitting up at night to give my wife a little rest, which she so sorely needed, together with my anxiety, had probably made me morbid, for one day, August 14th, as I remember, I was on my way to the post. It was a very hot day and the atmosphere was shimmering with radiated heat, and not a living thing was to be seen over that vast, desolate Jornada del Muerto, except maybe a lizard scurrying across the road, and I was half-way or more to the head of that canon in which the post was located, when a little grayish-brown bird suddenly appeared from somewhere, and fluttered over the horses' head just out of reach of my hand. I accepted it at once and without question, as a messenger sent to me, and my anxiety was to interpret its message. I tried to reach it with my hand, but it kept just out of reach, and presently lit in the road in front. I immediately got off my horse, and taking the lariat rope in my hand, walked up to it, but it kept moving out of the way, but only just out of reach. I again got on my horse but had no sooner done so, than it came back again and fluttered over the horse's head. From there it flew to a cactus bush by the roadside, and I got off my horse again and walked up to the bush and took my canteen--no one travels through such a country without a canteen of water--and holding it up over the bush poured out a little stream of water. The bird at once gathered from the leaves, such drops as lodged, and seemed greatly delighted. I then pressed my left hand, back downward, into the sand, and holding the canteen up poured a little stream of water into the palm of my hand. The bird at once left its perch, and flew down and lit near my hand, and after a little debating with herself, hopped up on my hand and drank, and at each swallow would look up at me as if to say, "Oh, I am so thankful." I was greatly comforted and got on my horse again feeling that my hopes would be realized, and that I would find my little child on the road to recovery, upon my return in the evening. I had only gone a short distance when the little bird again flew around in front of me and again fluttered its wings just out of reach of my hand. I got off