THURSDAY, NOV. 23. We escaped this morning another balk of our animals by a circling road which in the dusk of the last eve we had missed. It was mid-day when we rumbled from the hills of San Juan upon the plain of the Salinas, and near sunset when we reached the river, which rolls its yellow wave fifteen miles from Monterey. We might have pushed through, but why be impatient over a night’s delay? I had no one there watching a husband’s return, or waiting a father’s kiss. These objects of endearment were in other lands, and oceans rolled between. More than three long years had worn away since I waved my adieu, and weary moons must set before my return. I may find the eyes that beamed so kindly, closed forever; the bud of infant being, on which their last light fell, withered. We were roused in the night by screams from the river; an ox-cart, with three women in it, had tumbled down the opposite bank. The cattle seemed as much frightened as their passengers, and fared better, as they had struck a shallower bottom. We plunged in and reached the cart. Our first impulse was to take the women out and _tote_ them ashore, but their great size and weight forbade. We wished to carry the thing through as gallantly as it had been begun; but after casting about—the cold stream all the while lowering the thermometer of our enthusiasm—we concluded to drive the team out, and scramble out ourselves. FRIDAY, NOV. 24. We broke camp at an early hour, and were off for Monterey. I left my camping-tree as one parts with a tried friend. It was the last of a vernal band, that had thrown over me, at burning noon and through the chilly night, their protecting shade. While our driver hummed his low monotonous stave to his steeds, my neglected reed murmured in the counter— TO MY CAMPING-TREE. Farewell to thee, my camping-tree, The last to shade this breast, Where twilight weaves, with tender leaves, Her couch of rosy rest. Thy trembling leaf seemed shook with grief, As on it gleamed the dew; As woke the bird, by night-winds stirred, The stars came dancing through. In lucid dreams I caught the gleams— Through chasmed rocks unrolled— Of gems, where blaze the diamond’s rays And massive bars of gold. I saw a ship her anchor trip, All stowed with gold below, Depart this bay for Joppa’s quay, Three thousand years ago! A star-lit dome, of amber foam, Loomed in the liquid blue, Where reigned of old, on thrones of gold, The Incas of Peru. The midnight moans, and phrensied groans, Of miners near their last, In tones that cursed the gold they nursed Came trembling on the blast.