manner that piqued her curiosity to the utmost. "Well, dreadful things have happened, and I don't know where to begin, so I'll just dash into the middle. Quincy has eloped with Grace, with my consent and blessing, and Uncle John is pursuing them, but not to give them his consent and blessing, and I am engaged to Mr. Staunton, who will call after dinner to get your consent and blessing, and, mother, you will visit your daugh ter as Mrs. Frederic Staunton, in London, instead of Mrs. Quincy Roberts in Terre Haute." There was silence (an unparalleled condition of things in the Harcourt family) for the space of four seconds, when the small brother of thirteen, the age that disdains to show any interest in human emotion, said; "Well, because you have given one fellow the grand bounce, and are spoons on another, is no reason why dinner should hang fire like this," and he marched to the dining room whistling Yankee Doodle. I. ON RUSSIAN RIVER. TENTING SKETCHES. THERE is a place on our Central California coast where a strong rushing river pushes itself through high mountains and shadowy redwood forests to the ocean. But the river seems to shrink from the fatal contact, and lingering at its mouth, it spreads itself into a deep blue sheet; while the uneasy sands, striving to hold the river back, build during the cloudless summer time a high, dry bar from cliff to cliff, between the clear river and the sounding ocean. Here there gathers a tranquil lake, shut in by the cliffs on either side and the high hills inland, one of which leaves room for a miniature plain at its foot, where a grove of wil lows fling their shadows over the banks by the lake. Across this little plain a wander ing rivulet finds its way, making with its outlet among the willows a little harbor for boats. Broken bits of fog sweep in and out from the ocean to cool the sunny hills, and restless breezes glide up and down the river, but seemingly without power to harm the peace of the cliff-bound stream. And so the shining river rests through the gentle autumn days, till the winter torrents dash down from the great mountains to mingle there the broad volume of the river with the tumultuous deep. And waiting so, glassy and still, the river-lake keeps calmly the mountain and valley memories of all its winding length. The many tenters from the willow glades there, who glide in boats from cliff to cliff, delighting in its placid depth, call to mind the oozy springs and waving bunch-grass of its far-off mountain sources where the slender-footed deer make the Tenting Sketches. 75 first impresses in its damp pathway. The the bar between the sea-washed and rugged drifters watch the white sea birds sailing in cliffs, and wander in meditation about the lone flight over the bar, and speak of the shore, while the "wild white horses" leap mountain forest birds, dipping their gray upon the beach, and the thin waves chase wings in the dark pools in the cañons, and each other up the shining sands. Outside of the quail whirring through the yellow val- the bar, lone rocks towering cliffward are leys, where the young river broadens in its bathed with foaming spray, and far away, pebbly bed. They see the graceful hop vine slowly and calmly, the white-sailed ships paglancing into the stream as it passes, and trol the deep. the fragrant alfalfa spreading its evergreen. meadows over the rich lowlands. Down by the sand barrier that holds the river back, floating in the deep, still waters under the cliff, lie groups and tangles of logs, refuse from the dusty mills above, which never cease to grasp and tear away the stately pillars of the forest. down to higher solitudes yet unscathed, But the river sweeps where it foams between precipitous and shadowed banks, spraying the ferns that grow under the rocks, and cooling the vines that sway from tree-top to bank. But they who pitch their tents on the bit of mead by the willow grove need no memories of the rarer handiworks of nature. There is all to satisfy. An island under a steep hill-slope lies like an emerald gem on the bright, sheeny surface of the lake-a green and fertile farm guarded all about with its high levee, and fringed by the tall reeds and rushes that grow out of the water to rustle against its banks. The tenters, rowing across the water, making the hills echo their songs and laughter, pull through a saragossa of river moss to land on its fair shores. And there they find a quaint, low-roofed cottage, hung with vines, damp, beaten paths, grassbordered, banks and rows of many colored flowers, a kitchen garden, and green pastures. There are milk and vegetables; the boats can be loaded with the luxuries of camp life. But it seems the best of all to have the privilege of lingering about the paths of this green island home; there is the placid blue lake, the inland view up the river, the white tents across the stream, and looking west, the boundless ocean swelling in and thundering against the bar. Day after day, fascinated by the repetition, the tenters row down the lake and land upon II. THE MERMAID'S BATH. the forests and sunny slopes of Sonoma to It is a wonderful ride up the coast from along the bold cliff-road, where the towns "Cool Navarro." You drive all the way coast, are shut in by the high mountain range and settlements, lying down close to the from any other view. Many small creeks with high, wooded banks run down from the steep range into the ocean. headland, looking out over the blue expanse, In order to cross these, you must often turn from a bold and drive down the shaded aisle of a dense redwood forest, which has covered and kept the white, foaming river all the way from the misty mountain tops. this dark recess, there will be a bridge over Back somewhere in and game birds of the coast are fluttering up a deep, clear pool of water, and the songsters and down the sheltered defile. The wind is hushed into silence down among the great red trunks and deep shadows, but far above, the feathery tree-tops are swaying across their canopy of blue. thus, as if in the heart of the forest, you turn on to a grade on the opposite side of the deAfter hiding away file, and winding up, suddenly confront the bold wind and the glare of the shimmering ocean. of pasture land bordering on the ocean cliffs, You drive on through leagues and leagues or through miles of rocky land, bleak and barren, always skirted by the low-growing forest. mouth, and you cross on an ancient looking The beautiful Gualala widens at its ferry boat-which you go through shallow the buildings of a great mill. You are starwaters to reach-and drive directly through tled by the roar and glare of a perpetual fire, which consumes only the refuse of the crashing machinery. The mouth of the river is blocked by floating logs, which are borne, one by one, but swiftly, into the maw of the remorseless devourer. Above the picturesque Gualala and all along the coast are abandoned mills with their deserted settlements, and, on further, where the forest and the mountains stand more distant from the coast, there are the cultivated fields, the blackberry hedges, the houses, lanes, and pastures of a well settled district. There are many treasures for the memory of an artist along this upper Sonoma and lower Mendocino coast. For instance, a bold, high headland pushes out to the ocean, having only a narrow neck of land as a path to its grassy slope. It is but little more than an acre of smooth, fertile ground, held up by precipitous cliffs, with trees and groups of rocks for its picturesque furnishing. It seems a natural fortress and place of hiding and defense, but garrisoned now only by the seabirds, and grazing goats and cattle that wander out across the narrow neck of land. Riding along this wild and lonely coast, and yet in Sonoma county, one turns a curve, and meets with the keenest appreciation the view of a handsome, white, gable-roofed house, standing at the foot of the dark, heavy forest, with a picturesque mass of rock thrown up in front. In the upper story a square projecting window looks out over the ocean, and wild vines and cultivated flowers compete in luxuriance for the occupation of the grounds and rocks. Up in that high win dow the sea-lover finds great companionship in the wide ocean ever rolling in with heaving waves, in the white fog wandering in masses to creep into the blue forest, in the coming of hunters, herders, and woodmen down through the sounding forest to the white house so close to the waves. We tented once in the edge of the forest, so close to the sea that you might run down as through a door yard and look over the brink of the cliff into the seething waves. We turned into the thick forest as into a house set by the wayside, and from the white, glittering light of the ocean and sandy coast road, into the shelter of a shaded retreat, where only streaks and splashes of sunlight fell across the long green aisles. The floor of this forest refuge was the russet of the fallen leaves and the green of the plentiful brakes. Young pines and underbrush made a protection from the vigorous wind that cut along the coast rocks, so that the brakes bowed lightly, and the rushing sound of wind was high and far away. The red fire gave a bright jewel to the russet and green retreat. Near by a little brook rippled along, heedless that its bright stream would soon be plunged into the breaking waves. The ferns crept down under the rocks close to its edge, and the brakes hung over it to catch its last soft breath ere it reached the open sunlight and its glaring fate. Emerging from the forest, it ran in a narrow, deep channel across the open space, and disappeared over the cliff. Having a view from one side, we saw that the rugged cliff had broadened out into a shelf some distance below its edge, and offered there a hollowed receptacle for the bright descending waters, and they fell into it with a pleasant rippling and splashing, softly heard above the roar of the breaking waves; there they spread into a clear pool against the dark, rough wall, as if they were grateful to find so safe a place to tarry awhile before they passed over into the seething depth below. From the rock edges of this calm little lake, gentle, silent streams crept over, and ran down the seams and ridges of the great cliff. A few venturous ladies' slippers had strayed down from the upper channel, and grew on the edge of the water, as if the fairies had been there to bathe, and had left some of their tiny, yellow, velvety shoes. III. POOR WILL." THEY had said, "Go up on the north side of the lake, and you will travel along the top of a ridge where you will find 'deer licks,' wonderful springs, varied forests; and look ing down over inaccessible mountain sides, you will see the great Clear Lake shining far below." So we climbed up a steep, rugged, half-blind road, and traveled through a wild, almost inaccessible, country. Here we watched for the track of the deer by the many oozy springs, and listened for every bird note that echoes through the woods. On the top of the mountain, where tall pines and groups of young trees made protection from the sun and wind, a deserted deer camp told a pitiful story of many slaughtered inno cents. We hailed the sweetness of the air, so far above the smoke and dust of the valleys, lifted our arms joyfully to the dry, fragrant wind floating under the pines, watching as we were carried through it for those fine in comparable views of the white, misty lake, spread far below in its majestic setting of rugged mountains. It was up here that we found the resort of our imaginations, as if Nature herself had planned it after the most romantic fancy of the nature worshiper. Many narrow cañons led off from the mountain's crest, wandering down toward the valleys below. Over the ridge, and down one of these, ran the main toll road from the west in to Bartlett Springs, which lies four miles down a steep grade at the foot of the mountain. All about the top of the ridge are many little bench formations, and almost invariably by each bench, large or small, appears a damp place green with waving grass, which shows the presence of flowing or undeveloped springs. One of these bench for mations near the summit was large enough to form a ridge by itself, with deeply wooded sides, and narrow but level top. Where the small ridge left the main mountain, a great mass of rock, about a half an acre in extent, was built into the foundations of the earth, and reared up in the air like a castle. We could ascend its ramparts from the rear, but it was impregnable in front. A few stunted trees grew on its turrets, and the pines of the forest shot up by its side. Down in the gloomy shade on one side of the rock a fissure appeared, and a narrow, tortuous opening led to a long cavern with jagged sides and irregular floor, perhaps the dungeon of some heathen inquisition. Away back in the dark, it stopped over a black opening, and a rock thrown in, after a long silence, was followed by the dull, hollow sound of its splashing into some sullen, mysterious tide below. On the opposite side of Castle Rock was the icy cold spring which sent down the mountain a long train of grasses and flowers. The tall trees, standing a little apart, guarded it from the sunlight, and the birds of the forest kept whirling continually into the open space, to bathe and flutter about the dear jewel of their delight-this unsullied, clear, and faultless pearl of the woods. Directly in the front of Castle Rock lay the level tenting ground, shaded, but not obscured, by trees, and fit for the royal tent of an encamping army, where a handful of men might defend it, being surrounded by its steep slopes merging into the general contour of the mountain. Here we placed the white dwelling of our pilgrimage, and with the forest above and the forest below, breathed in from the piny pungent wind an overflowing measure of the blessedness and beauty of outdoor life. It is not in looking at such a place as this that one sees the fountain of health and satisfaction; it is in staying there day after day, until the measure of the forest hymns begins to beat about the inner thought; it is in climbing every day new paths, seeing new views, tasting of new springs, discovering a tree rare in its locality, or a rare bird retreating in cautious flight before you. It is in becoming domiciled in the woods till they are restful and familiar, and until you realize that in such solitudes, so far from the haunts of men, absolute safety waits upon your footsteps by day or night. For there is nothing harmful in the forest shadows; only the chirp of the tree squirrel startles the air as he is starting to his home; the woodpecker raps away with his telegraphy of peace, and the perpetual hymning of the tree-tops dispenses unworded calm and restfulness. And the night blends itself into the forest shadows, and comes up through the umber tree trunks with the slow peace that scatters care. The stars and the burnished moon are not so much a part of the forest night, but glitter far away behind the screening tree-tops, taking no solemnity from the inner chamber of the woods. The camp-fire, with the white smoke passing away with the wind, is the star of the pine and cedar glades There is one thing up there in the woods that lies like a jewel on the memory. One night the camp fire had gone out, and slumber, which comes so easily and so early there, had claimed its most willing votaries. The night was motionless, the horses tethered in the brush craunched their hay quietly, the frogs and crickets called faintly and dreamily. A voice said: "Hush-did you hear it ?" I listened, and in a moment there came up from the dark, silent woods below the clear, plaintive, mysterious notes, "Poor will, poo' will, poo' whip, poo' whip, poo' will." My ears heard it for the first time, but instantly my years had vanished, and I was a child in a rude Californian schoolhouse, reading from my thumbed reader the neverto-be-forgotten tale of poor Will, the truant. And then it came again-so sweet, so pure, so welcome to the ears that had always longed to hear it-not an unvarying command, but a commiseration, rating in equal sympathy both objects of mention-“ Poo’ whip, poo' whip, poo' will." If ever you go there, stay by night in the woods, till the shy midnight wanderer repeats to you the pathetic song-burden of his existence. Lillian H. Shuey. WITH CRAWFORD IN MEXICO. I READ with much interest the account of the pursuit of Geronimo in the April number of the OVERLAND, as it was my fortune to accompany the command of Captain Emmet Crawford, who continued the pursuit of this band into the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico. After a hard chase after a portion of the hostiles as far as Lake Palomas, in Mexico, the command to which I belonged was ordered to go to Deming and report to Captain Crawford. We found Crawford awaiting us with a train of stock cars, all ready to pull out as soon as some Indian scouts should arrive on the train from the East. The main body of the hostiles were reported as making their way south, to the west of us, and telegrams reporting their position were coming all day long; but the train from the East was late, and we did not get away till afternoon. It soon discharged its motley load of Indian scouts, whose appearance bore evidence of the long, hard chase they had just concluded; for they had been following the hostiles from the north, and were put on the cars, in the Rio Grande valley, to endeavor to head them off to the west of Deming, before they got to the railroad. We were soon loaded and off, and after dark disembarked at Separ, having heard nothing from the hostiles since leaving Deming. The darkness was intense, and unloading. the animals on an open freight platform difficult in the extreme. The cries of the scouts, the trampling of loose animals, and the efforts of the men to find their belongings in the darkness, created an indescribable confusion; while the resemblance to pandemonium was, if anything, increased by the little fires the scouts had lighted, which illuminated the somber darkness in places, and showed the savage faces and almost naked forms of the Indian scouts gathered around them. It was midnight before the tired men got to rest, and at daybreak the camp was astir, and we were soon marching away over the |