I did not find it convenient to leave Batavia until eight o'clock in the evening, but as most of the six miles between the two places lay through a swampy region, I had a running fight with the mosquitoes, which encouraged me to make good time, so that I reached "Croft's" in an hour. On my arrival I found Babcock awaiting me with accommodation provided at a quiet little retreat situated at the Crossroads, which was hotel, grocery and farm-house in one. This odd grocery-tavern is about half a mile from the station; just far enough away to have peculiarities of its own. While its proprietor was throwing down hay for _Paul_ from his barn loft, he in some way lost his footing and fell through, but no serious damage was done. This little incident simply added an extra attraction to the "horse that was going to California." In the course of the morning I went to the hotel sitting-room to make some observations and to post my journal. While quietly occupied in this way I noticed the arrival of several of the men and boys of the place, who came in, seated themselves on the wooden benches that were placed around the sides of the room, and began unceremoniously to "look me over." Phoebe, the proprietor's daughter, and the ruling spirit at the "Corners," a bright little maid, who filled the offices of cook, waitress, chambermaid and clerk, assumed one of her various roles and was standing behind the counter. Soon, one of her rustic knights sauntered up to her, pipe in mouth, and called out, "Pheeb, gimme a match!" Whereupon, her father, who was standing on one side of the room, country fashion, with 'trousers over his boot-tops, and in his shirt sleeves, stepped forward and said with admirable dignity, "Phebe, sir!" adding, as the nonplused offender made some bashful apology, "You's brought up well nuff, Jack, but you've forgot some on't." This was an unexpected turn of affairs which I scarcely expected to witness at "Croft's," but it at least gave evidence of a certain sense of refinement which we Americans would hardly be credited with outside our cultivated circles. It afforded, too, food for reflection upon that assumption of equality which in this country so often tends to familiarity. We are prone to forget that "familiarity breeds contempt." Thirty-ninth Day. _Crittenden House_, CRITTENDEN, NEW YORK, _June Sixteenth_.