It was mid-day when we struck the hills which roll their low forests to the verge of the prairie. In a glen, where sparkled a spring and the pine threw its shadows, we encountered an elderly man and his little boy. The parent was silent, downcast, and abstracted, and his boy was evidently trying to cheer him. The father, in reply to our inquiries, informed us that they had been in the mines, where, by great industry and good fortune, they had got out twenty pounds of gold; that on their return they had camped for the night near Stockton; that leaving their camping-tree for a few hours to renew their stock of provisions, they had buried their bag of gold under the tree; but on their return their gold could not be found! that the most diligent search had led to no results; that he had been robbed! that the loss was less for him, but that he had eight motherless children, dependent on him for a support. Who could listen to such a tale as this and not feel his blood tingle at the callous wretch who could thus ruin another? Even the forgiving Uncle Toby would deliver him over to the avenging angel, to be driven down under double-bolted thunder: nothing could rescue him, unless the Universalists catch him in their creed, which saves a man in spite of the Evil One, and in spite of himself, too. We invited the father and son to join our company; and when on the way, the little boy, who was mounted on a pony at my side, told me a subscription had been started at Stockton for his father, and that Mr. Weber and Dr. Isabell had subscribed a pound of gold each. Blessings on those liberal men! such a charity will throw a circle of light around misfortune, should it ever be _their_ lot. The sun was far down his western dip when we reached the hospitable hearth of our friend Mr. Livermore; but finding that he had no grain for our horses, and that the grass around had utterly perished under the summer’s drought, we determined to push on; and, crossing a plain of eight miles, reached the mountain rollers, where we struck into a ravine, through which a streamlet murmured, and where a plot of grass still preserved some portion of its freshness. Here we tethered and camped. The brief twilight that remained had passed into night’s bosom before we had gathered sufficient wood for our camp-fire: and we needed a large pile; for the air was chill and penetrating. We made our supper on hard bread, dried venison, and coffee; while clouds, the sure precursors of the winter rains, drifted above in sluggish masses. Our camp-fire threw its column of waving flame on the beetling crags; not a sound from cavern or cliff disturbed the silence; we gazed into the fire, lost in pensive musing; and a more melancholy group seldom gathers over that face— “Where life’s last parting pulse has ceased to play,”