Good bye, reader, I'll tell you all about my trip when I get back--I'll telegraph you at the nearest station. Don't be uneasy about me; I am told that burros never run off, and if Fanny should throw me I have only three feet to fall. I wonder what her great ears are for--but a happy thought strikes me, and I hang my poke hat on one and start. One by one her feet are lifted, One by one she sets them down; Step by step we leave the gatepost, And go creeping 'round to a convenient puddle, when Fanny flops her ears, and lands my hat in the middle. Well, you cannot expect me to write poetry and go at this rate of speed. My thoughts and the muses can't keep pace with the donkey. Most time to telegraph back to my friends who waved me away so grandly. But, dear me, I have been so lost in my reverie on the lovely night, and thoughts of how I could now climb Pike's Peak--_if I ever reached the foot of the mountain_,--that I did not notice that Fanny had crept round the mud puddle, and was back leaning against the gate-post. Another start, and Fanny's little master follows to whip her up; but she acts as though she wanted to slide me off over her ears, and I beg him to desist, and we will just creep. Poor little brute, you were created to creep along the dangerous mountain passes with your slow, cautious tread, and I won't try to force you into a trot. Well, I went up street and down street, and then gave my seat to Hettie Keefer. "What does it eat?" I asked. "Oh, old shoes and rags, old tin cans, and just anything at all." I wish I could tell you all about this queer little Mexican burro, but Hettie is back, and it is time to say good night. In 1880, Kansas was so flooded with exodus negroes that Nebraska was asked to provide for a few, and over one hundred were sent to Lincoln. Near Mr. K.'s home, they have a little church painted a crushed strawberry color, and in the afternoon, our curiosity led us right in among these poor negroes so lately from the rice and cotton fields and cane brakes of the sunny South, to see and hear them in their worship. They call themselves Baptist, but, ignorant of their church belief, requested the Rev. Mr. Gee, then minister of the Lincoln Baptist church, to come and baptise their infants. I went supplied with a large fan to hide a smiling countenance behind, but had no use for it in that way. Their utter ignorance, and yet so earnest in the very little they knew, drove all the smiles away, and I wore an expression of pity instead. The paint is all on the outside of the house, and the altar, stand and seats are of rough make up. The whole audience turned the whites of their eyes upon us as we took a seat near the door. Soon a powerful son of Africa arose and said: