men were standing in a row, their glasses high up, and dipping at every angle and to every point of the compass, but they did not know the baby's name; they did not even know its sex. And so in that moment, without stopping to think, and without any time to spare, they spoke of it as "it," and they named it "Little Half-pint."

ed of in every corner of the house. Was it a girl or was it a boy? Why had they not asked so simple and so civil a question? They called for Limber Tim-they would appeal to him. But Limber Tim was not to be found in all the manifold depths of the Howling Wilderness. He had had his carouse, and was now playing sober Indian. In fact, he was hanging very close about

NOBODY COULD ANSWER.

How the Widow's heart had been beating all this time! How she waited, and waited, and listened, and how often she sent Captain Tommy to the door to tell her, if possible, how her baby fared among the half-wild men of the camp!

How glad she was when she saw Sandy enter, all flurry and delight, as if he had been the centre figure in some great triumph. Then a bit of the old sadness and cast of care swept over her face, and she nestled down in the pillow and put up her two hands to hide a moment from the light.

The other two were too busy with Little Half-pint to notice her trouble then. They laid it down in a cradle that had been made for rocking and washing gold, and good little Bunker Hill sat by it, and crossed her legs and took up her work, and went on sewing and singing to herself, and swinging her leg that hung over, and rocking the cradle with her foot in the old-fashioned way when babies were born in the leaves of the woods of the Wabash, and mothers sat singing by the camp-fires, knitting, and rocking their babies in their sugar-troughs.

room of the Widow's cabin. Never was the cradle allowed to rest, but rock, rock, rock, until the Widow and Sandy, too, were both made very sensible, sleeping or waking, that Little Half-pint, small as it was, was filling up the biggest half of the house.

Nearly midnight it was when Limber Tim, leaning over the cradle and looking, or pretending to look, at the baby, said to Bunker Hill, who bent down over it on the other side:

"Pretty, aint it?"

"Guess it is. Looks just like its father for the world." And little humpbacked Bunker Hill began to make faces, and to shake her head and nod it up and down, and coo and crow to Little Half-pint as if it was really able to hear, and understand, and answer all she said to it.

Down at the saloon all this time the spirits flowed like water. The cinnamon-haired fellow had fallen upon a harvest, and was making the most of it. He had laid off his coat, run his two hands up through his hair until it stood up like forked flames, and was thumping the glasses as if in feats of legerdemain. How he did score with the charcoal on the hewn logs behind! He marked and scored that night until the wall behind him looked as if it might be the Iliad written in Greek, or the characters on the obelisk of Saint Peter's.

memoration and celebration of the beginning of a new race in a new land, there was one man back in the corner of the saloon who looked on with something of a sneer in his hard hatchet face, and who refused to take any part. Now and then this man would lift up his left hand, hold out his fingers and count, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, to himself with his other hand, and then shake his head.

The men began to look at him and wonder what he meant. Then this man would count again-one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Then, when the men would waddle by in their great gum-boots and look back at him over their beards, he would look them square in the face and wink, and screw and shrug his shoulders.

This man stopped there in the middle of the spree, and pursing his brow, and holding up his fingers once more, and looking as profound as if wrestling with a problem in Euclid, said to himself: "Hosses is ten, cows is six, cats is three; but human bein's? Blowed ef I know." And he shook his head.

At last this hard hatchet-faced looking man, standing back alone in the corner, seemed to have got it all counted up to his own satisfaction. He counted, however, again; then he said, as if to himself, "Eight months at the very outside," and slapped his hands together with great glee, and sucked his thin brown lips as if he had just tasted some thing very delicious.

Then this hatchet-faced fellow, still rubbing his hands and still sucking his lips, and meanwhile grinning with a grin that was sweet and devilish, turned to the first man at his side, and whispered in his ear.

This man started and spun round when the hard-faced man had finished, as if he had been a top and the hatchetfaced fellow had struck him with a whip. The man spun about, in fact, until the

hard-faced fellow caught hold of his eye with his own and held him there until he could catch his breath. Then the man, after catching his breath, and catching it again, said slowly, but most emphatically:

"Ompossible!"

The hatchet-faced man simply pecked in the face of the other. He did not say anything more to him, but he pecked at him again, and he pecked emphatically, too, and in a way that would not admit of any two opinions; as if the man were a grain of corn, and he had half a mind to peck him up and swallow him down for daring to hint that it was impossible. Then the man went off suddenly to one side, and he, too, fell to counting on his fingers, and to taking a whole knot of men into his confidence.

Then the hatchet-faced fellow went up to another man and whispered in his ear, with his smirk and his sweet devilish smile, and he soon set him to spinning round like a top, and to lifting up his fingers and counting one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

hold up their

Then all around the saloon men began to get sober and to hands and to count their fingers. At last the little fat red-faced Judge was heard to say:

"They was married in the fall."

"About-about-about- eh, about what month, do you remember, eh?" squeaked out the hatchet - faced man through his nose, as he planted himself before the little Judge.

"About the last cleaning up," said the Judge, cheerfully.

"That was about-about" - and the hatchet-faced man with the nasal twang and sharp nose began again to count on his fingers"about six, seven, eight months ago?"

"Yes, yes," said the good-natured, unsuspicious, important little Judge"about six or eight months ago, I reckon." And then he, smiling innocently,

fell in between two great bearded giants, as a sort of ham-sandwich filling, to take a drink at the bar.

now as before. The question evidently had been settled in the minds of the men fully in favor of Little Half-pint.

the hatchet-face.

"Ask him."

The hatchet-face and sharp-nose looked toward the little fat Judge wedged in between the giants. The top spun up to the little Judge, wedged his head in between the giants' shoulders, and asked a question.

The Judge shook his head, and then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, said half-sadly: "No, I am not. No, I am sorry to say, I am not. That is a happiness still in store. No, I am not a family man. Never was married in my life; but whatever may transpire in this glorious climate of Californy"

The top had its answer, and spun back to its place without waiting for the last of the speech.

The two men talked together again. Then they appealed to an old man who sat mute and sullen back on the bench by the bull-dog.

"No, he didn't know about such things; didn't care a cuss, anyhow." And the two men went away as if a flea or two had left the dog and hopped into their ears. They went to another man. "Don't see the point, blowed ef I do. Six months, seven months, eight months, ten months, all along there, I 'spose. The great Washington, Cæsar, Horace Greeley, all sich big-bugs, it might take one, two, three years. That little cuss today only a month or two, I reckon. It's all right, I reckon. It aint my funeral, anyhow. And what the devil yer come a-botherin' o' me for? Ef yer don't want ter drink yerself, let a feller alone what does!" And he shook them off with a gesture of the hand and a jerk of the head that meant a great deal more than he had said.

There were not so many fingers up

er still cared to go into particulars at this time, and the question would keep until they had more leisure and less whisky.

Finally, the hatchet-faced man went round and sat down opposite the man who sat behind the little silver faro-box by the pine table, and began to whisper in his ear. The good-natured genius, half-gambler, half-miner, who had played the little prank with the salmon and gold-dust, had had a dull night of it, and most likely even for that reason was a little out of humor. At all events, he did not answer at once, but set down his little silver box, and, taking up his cards, began to spin them one by one over the heads of the men, or through the crowd as it opened, back at the old bull-dog that lay on the bunk on the bags of gold under the blankets, half-whistling to himself as he did so.

The hatchet-faced man, fearing the man had forgotten his presence and his revelation, leaned over again and began to whisper and to count on his fingers.

"How many months did you say?" "Seven or eight at the farthest." "And how many had it ought to be?" "Twelve!" And the smile that was sweet and devilish played about the thin blue lips below the sharp and meddlesome nose.

"And are you a family man?"
"No."

"And you say she's bilked us?"
"Yes."

"You're a darn'd infernal liar!" The gambler rose as he said this, snatched up his silver box and dashed it into the teeth of hatchet - face. And he, coward as he was, put up his hands and held them to his mouth while the blood ran down between his fingers.

"I don't keer, Judge, I don't keer ef

I broke every tooth in his head. I don't 'low no white-livered son of a gun to go round a-talkin' about a woman like that." Then the gambler, walking off, said to those around him in a lower tone: "It don't take no twelve months, nohow. Now, there's the yaller cat; 'bout four litters in a year. Twelve months be blowed! That's an old woman's story. Then that's in Missoury, anyhow, an' what's the climate o' Missoury got to do with Californy, I'd like to know? No, gentlemen; some apples gits ripe soon, an' some don't git ripe till frost comes. Them's things, gentlemen, as we don't know nothin' about. Them's mysteries, an' none o' our business, nohow. Show me the man," and here he began to roar like a Numidian lion, and to tower up above the crowd, while a face like a razor shot out through the door, looking back frightened as it fled-"show me the man as says it's not all right, an' I'll shake him out o' his boots."

The gambler picked up his battered box, but he was evidently not in a good humor. He wiped it on his coat-sleeve,

and polished it up and down, but was ill content. At last, looking out from under his great slouch-hat, he saw the top in the centre of a little knot of men holding up his hand and counting his fingers. He threw the box down on the table and rushed into the knot of men like a mad bull.

"A bully set you are, aint you? Gwine around a-countin' up after a sick woman! An' what do you know, anyhow?" He took hold of the nervous top, and again set it spinning. "That little woman, she come as we come. God Almighty didn't set no mark and gauge on you, an' you sha'n't go round an' count up after her. Do you hear? Now you git. You're wanted. Hatchet-face wants yer. Do you hear?" The man spun his top about until its face was to the door, and it went out as a sort of handle to the hatchet, and was seen no more that night.

Yet for all this there had been a great ripple in the wave that had to run even to the shore before it could disappear from the face of things at the Forks.

TH

HE history of the adventures of the gold-hunters in the mad scramble that followed the discovery of gold in California has not been and probably will never be written. The actors, then in the vigor of early manhood, are now fast dropping away, and those who survive can furnish but dim and fragmentary recollections, from which it is difficult to gather enough of details to weave the fabric of a story. Few of them had forethought to keep journals. Making history or writing it was not an element that entered into their calculations, and the memories of VOL. 15.-16.

the wild romance of that eventful year will soon be buried with them.

An allusion made by me in an address before the Pioneer Society in September last, to the adventures of a party that landed on the peninsula of Lower California and made their way to San Diego by land, was based on a narrative made to me during the year in which the events occurred, by a sick man who was one of a party that performed the journey, and the only one whom I knew. I have made unsuccessful endeavors to learn the fate of that man, who bore the ubiquitous name of Smith.

But the allusion has been the means of putting me in communication with a number of men of different parties who performed that feat, and, what is fortunate, I have been put into possession of diaries of the journeys kept by men now living in San Francisco. By the aid of these written records, I have been enabled to piece out the histories, comparatively complete, of several parties, that are worthy of preservation. The first is that of the

CRUISE OF THE SAN BLASENA.

Many thousands of the gold-hunters, in order to gain the advantage of a short cut, without waiting for the approach of spring to open up the passage by way of the plains, crossed through Mexico by every route practicable, and concentrated at the ports on its west coast, chiefly San Blas and Mazatlan. On their arrival at these ports they found all the available shipping already gone, or filled with passengers about to sail for San Francisco.

At the city of San Blas was a small schooner of thirty-five tons, the San Blasena, loaded with fruit for Mazatlan. It was ascertained that this vessel could be purchased for $2,700, to be delivered at the port of Mazatlan, and a party was soon made up consisting of thirty-seven persons. A bargain was concluded with the owners, who were Americans, and the money was paid to one of them named Robinson. The party sailed in the schooner to Mazatlan, while Robinson was to proceed by land and provide an outfit for the voyage.

After a few days, crowded on the schooner, the adventurers arrived at Mazatlan; but Robinson was not to be found. Many of them had put their all into the purchase and they were in desperate mood. No preparations had been made for supplies and the departure of the vessel. They had been nearly a week in this perplexity, when

the looked - for Robinson appeared, giving the most pitiful account of his robbery and detention on the road; in short, he said he was unable to comply with the terms of the sale or refund the purchase-money. A meeting was called to consider the situation, and the excitement ran high. It was voted that the whole story of the robbery was an invention, and part of a scheme to swindle them. A suit was forthwith instituted against the reputed owners, as principals in the fraud, and they were thrown into prison by the authorities. At length an arrangement was effected by which they got a bill of sale of the schooner; but she was without stores, and required an outfit nearly equal to her value to provide for so long a voy. age. It was expected that it would require a month at least to make the voyage to San Francisco. Those of the party who had money left advanced the amount necessary and took a bond on the vessel. A crew was extemporized out of their number, and an old gentleman named Austin was found to be qualified to take the altitude of the sun, and was put in command. Water and all the stores suitable that could be found were taken in, but when the captain went up to the custom-house to get his clearance, he was informed that he had an excess of passengers, and could not be allowed to proceed until he had landed nine of them. The requisite number were selected and placed on shore; but what rule governed in the selection the chronicler does not statewhether it was by lot, or whether the weakest had to take the boat. It may have been that those had to go who were armed with Allen's revolvers, or what was better, with no arms at all, or those who held the bottomry bond; but upon all this we are left to the vaguest conjecture and in total darkness. It would be very interesting to hear from one of that nine who were thenceforth