the “fuente de Axusco,” distant about two miles to the southward of the town. It is a broad pool, at the bottom of a ravine, shut in by steep banks on every side, and reached by a single narrow path. The water is tepid, and bursts, pure as crystal, in a large volume from beneath the rocks. It is literally arched over with trees, and curtained in with vines. This place was my favorite resort during the whole of my residence in the country. I rose at early dawn, despatched a cup of coffee, and mounting my horse, generally reached the place just as the sun began to tinge the summit of the distant volcanoes. The path lay through fields covered with trees and bushes, spangled all over with flowers, and glittering with dew-drops. The cool, bracing morning air, the quick action of the horse, and the grateful plunge into the quiet pool,—I think I never enjoyed so much the mere pleasure of existence, as during my visits to the “fuente de Axusco.” There stood a cross in a nook near the pool, and I often observed chaplets of fresh flowers suspended upon it. It puzzled me exceedingly, and one day, finding a little boy seated beside it, I asked him why it was there? It commemorated an awful murder, he said, and that was all he knew, except that the victim was a woman. Beyond the “fuenta,” is the range of low hills which I have mentioned as bordering the plain of Leon on the side of the ocean. I had the trees cut down on the most commanding peak, and rode there so frequently that the rancheros in the vicinity christened it “el cerro de los Americanos,” the hill of the Americans. From this point the eye traversed the whole vast plain, and took in every object of interest. Upon one hand the forests alone shut the lake of Managua from view, while upon the other the broad Pacific lay bright and beautiful on the edge of the horizon. With a glass the vessels in the harbor of Realejo, and the outlines of the volcano of Coseguina, distant more than a hundred miles, could easily be distinguished. A view from the “cerro de los Americanos” is an incident in a man’s lifetime not likely to be forgotten. Its impression upon my own mind is too distinct ever to be effaced.