Our road lay through a level plain, into which the spur of a mountain range had thrown its bold terminus. Doubling this, we wound into a deep cove, where wild oats waved, and a copious spring gushed from a cleft of the rock. It was yet two hours to sunset; but the next stream lay ten miles ahead, and we decided to camp where we were. Our horses and mules were turned into the ample cove untethered; and in half an hour we had gathered sufficient wood for a strong fire through the night. We were near the rancho of Mr. Murphy, and the kind old gentleman called, and invited us to his house; but we deemed it more prudent to stay by our animals. Our supper of hard bread, broiled pork, and coffee was quickly prepared, and as quickly disposed of. The shadows of eve fell fast; we arranged our watches for the night; and each, in his blanket wound, composed himself to sleep. Mine was the mid-watch: I found the camp-fire bright, and the cliffs around lit with its rays. I numbered the animals to see that none had strayed, and then sat down to watch the motions of a wolf, who was reconnoitering our camp, with step as soft and low— “As that of man on guilty errand bent.” SATURDAY, SEPT. 23. We broke camp, were up and away while the dew was yet fresh on the grass. Ten miles brought us to Fisher’s rancho, where we procured soft bread and fresh milk. But our animals fared hard; the grasshoppers had been there before them. We had yet three hours of sun when we reached the lagoon near San José, but camped there on account of the grass. A shanty stood near by, where we procured a few potatoes and onions, and a piece of fresh meat, with which we made a stew—quite a luxury on a California road. The owner of the shanty invited me to a night’s lodging, which I accepted, but found my host much more hospitable than his fleas, for I was driven back to my camp before midnight. A California flea is not to be trifled with; his nippers drive you into spasms. SUNDAY, SEPT. 24. This is the Sabbath, and we are in San José, in the house of Dr. Stokes, to whose hospitality we are indebted for a good table and quiet apartments. I must here relate a domestic incident in the doctor’s family, which fell under my eye while he resided at Monterey, and which pictured itself strongly on my mind. It was evening, and the hour for rest with the children, when six little boys and girls knelt around the chair of their father, repeating the Lord’s prayer, and closing with the invocation—“God bless our dear parents, and brothers, and sisters, and grant that we meet in heaven at last.” Then came the good-night, and the cheerful footsteps to the chamber of soft sleep. What are gold mines to this? A glow-worm’s light beneath a star that shall never set!