WEDNESDAY, FEB. 7. There is one tree in California that is worthy of note, which is peculiar to the country, and as deserving a place on her coat-of-arms as her grizzly bear, and much more so, unless her people intend to overawe their neighbors with the terrors of their insignia. This tree is called the redwood, and closely resembles, in its texture, size, and antiseptic qualities, the giant cedars which have pinnacled, through the storms of a thousand years, the steeps of Lebanon. It is found on the table-lands between the coast range and the sea, and grows in distinct forests, like the savage tribes which once slumbered in its shadows. Its shaft rises straight and free of limbs, till high over the wave of other trees it can spread its emerald sails to the wind, compact as the royals of a ship of the line. The wood is of a pale red hue, and easily yields to any shape under the implements of the carpenter, but is not sufficiently firm for the severer tests of cabinet work. It resists decay, whatever may be its exposure, and in the ground or on the roof is true to its trust. The same shingle which shook the rain from your grandsire, wards it from you; and the same board which pannelled his coffin, echoes to the rumbling sounds of yours as you go down to join him. In a grove of these trees, only a short ride from Monterey, stands one measuring sixty feet in circumference! Of its height I am not certain, as I had no means of measuring it—say three hundred feet—or at least as high as the steeple of that church, a warden of which, who had caught the spirit of its elevation, is reported to have said in reply to a proposition for the introduction of lamps and an evening service, “this line goes through by daylight.” Let those versed in moral mensuration determine the elevation of that warden’s spiritual pride, and they will have the height of my tree exactly. FRIDAY, FEB. 16. Mr. Larkin has closed the amusements of the carnival with a splendid entertainment, graced with all the beauty and bravery of Monterey. As no egg could be broken after midnight, without trenching on the solemnities of Lent, each went equipped with these weapons, ready for an early contest. Several small volleys opened the engagement between some of the parties; while the fandango engrossed the attention of others. In this oval war the ladies are always the antagonists of the gentlemen, and, generally, through their dexterity, and larger supply of ammunition, bear off the palm. They will sometimes carry two or three dozen rounds each, and as snugly stowed away as cartridges in the box of a new recruit. Still both parties will fight it out— “With blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, Where one will not retreat, nor t’other flinch.”