The she bear has one peculiarity that must puzzle even the philosophical inquirer. As soon as she discovers herself with young, she ceases to roam the forest, and modestly retires from the presence of others, to some secluded grotto. There she remains, while her male companion, with a consideration that does honor to his sex, brings her food. She reappears at length with her twin cubs, and woe to the luckless wight who should attempt to injure or molest them. They are guarded by an affection and ferocity with which it would be madness to trifle. For them she hunts the berries, and dislodges the acorns. Her maternal care is a beautiful trait in her savage nature, and “Shines like a good deed in a naughty world.” [Illustration: Burt, sc.] CHAPTER VIII. LITTLE ADELAIDA.—COL. FREMONT’S BATTALION.—SANTIAGO IN LOVE.—SENTIMENTS OF AN OLD CALIFORNIAN.—THE PRIZE JULIA.—FANDANGO.—WINTER CLIMATE.—PATRON SAINT OF CALIFORNIA.—HABITS OF THE NATIVES.—INSURRECTION IN THE NORTH.—DRAMA IN A CHURCH.—POSITION OF COM. STOCKTON. SATURDAY, DEC. 12. Our paper, the only one published in California, made its hebdomadal appearance again to-day. It is a little fellow, but is half filled or more with original matter. A paper is much like an infant; the smaller it is, the more anxious the attentions which it requires. My partner promised to stick by me, but has been the greater part of the time since its commencement on the bay of San Francisco. He went there to locate a city, but if rumor speaks truly, has gone off in quest of his Aphrodite before he builds her shrine. I suppose he thinks there is but little use in a cage without a bird, but there is still less in a bird without a cage. Birds, however, always pair before they rear their nests. So that my partner is after all in nature’s great line, however wide it may run from the columns of the Californian. SUNDAY, DEC. 13. I miss very much the light step and laughing eye of my little friend Adelaida, the infant daughter of our consul, Mr. Larkin. She was a sweet child, and beguiled with her gladness, many a moment that had else passed less lightly. But a change came over her brightness, an eclipse whose shadow passes not. We watched its dim veil, and idly dreamed it might still pass, when its faint, inwoven light was lost in spreading darkness. She passed away like a bird from its clouded bower; and though her flight lay over dark waters, she now sings in the purple land of the blest. There no shadows fall, and death has no trophies. One eternal spring, with its sparkling founts and fragrant blossoms, reigns through the vernal year. The soft airs as they stir, wake the strings of invisible lyres; and the tender leaves whisper in music. There walk the pure; there survive the meek who wept with us here. They wait to welcome our flight to their joys and sinless repose. O that I had wings like the dove that I might fly away and be at rest!