We discovered in the last flashes of twilight a gush of waters from the rocks, which beetled over a cañada, where the grass was fresh from the showering spray. We had struck this spot through no sagacity of our own; Nina, snuffing the water long before it flashed upon us, had turned into the ravine, and dashed ahead upon the gallop. Here we camped for the night. The dried willows supplied us with fuel, the cascade with water, and our panniers with a piece of pork, and a few pounds of flour, which the kneading-tray and embers soon converted into bread. The stones were made to grind our coffee, and we were soon seated to a supper from which the epicure might perhaps turn away, but which these rough mountains made a luxury. And then the repose, though on the earth with your saddle for a pillow, yet how refreshing and profound! Nor bark of wolf, nor murmur of cascade, nor rustle of the bear disturbed my dreams that night. TUESDAY, NOV. 14. We were up, had taken our coffee, and were ready for a start, while as yet only the whispering trees on the higher cliffs had been greeted by the sun. Our course, which was determined by a pocket-compass, now lay among mountain spurs, till we reached the rollers, which ridge the plain of the San Joaquin. In a copse of birch, which shadows one of these, we discovered a spring, where we lunched and rested for an hour, while our animals refreshed themselves on the grass, still green on the marge of the fount. We were now off for a hard ride of several hours. My little Indian hammered into it with a resolution that paid but little heed to the discomfort of his rider. Our object was to reach before night-fall the cabin of an old friend, who had nested himself out here among these wild mountain crags. We dashed around this steep, and over that, like hunters in the chase; while Nina, without rein or rider, led the way. We had no trail to guide us,—only the instinct of our animals, and that sagacity which a mountain life converts into a sort of prophetic knowledge. The day was dying fast, and no gleam of the cabin cheered the eye. The night would render all search hopeless. At last we struck the stream on which we knew the cabin stood, but whether up or down its current, we could not decide; but Nina, after pausing a moment, led quick and resolutely up the stream, and we struck in after. The step of a weasel may turn the balanced rock.