As there is no room for the muses to visit me here I'll not attempt further poetizing but go to sleep and dream I am snug in my own little bed at home. Glad father and mother do not know where their daughter is seeking rest for to-night. "Get up, Sims, it's five o'clock and Mrs. S. wants to set the table for breakfast," and I start up, rubbing my eyes, wishing I could sleep longer, and wondering why I hadn't come west long ago, and hadn't always slept on a table? I only woke once during the night, and as the lamp was left burning, could see that Mrs. R. had found a place for her feet, and all were sound asleep. Empty stomachs, weariness, and dampened spirits are surely three good opiates which, taken together, will make one sleep in almost any position. Do wonder if "Mark" ever slept on an extension table when he was out west? Don't think he did, believe he'd use the dirty floor before he'd think of the table; so I am ahead in this chapter. Well, the fun was equal to the occasion, and I think no one will ever regret the time spent in the little log house at "Morrison's bridge," and cheerfully paid their $1.75 for their four meals and two nights' lodging, only as we jogged along through the cold next day, all thought they would have had a bite of supper, and not gone hungry to the floor, to sleep. _Monday morning._ Cold, cloudy, and threatening more rain. Start about eight o'clock for the Keya Paha, Mr. N. with the Ross ladies ahead, while the walkers stay with our "span of brindles" to help push them up the hill, and I walk to relieve them of my weight.