far astray in acquiescing. In speaking about Yank I am led to say a few words about the people of Nevada, who are so intimately connected with California that they are essentially Californians-warmblooded, impetuous in good and bad, and generous to a fault. As Mr. Carpenter, our topographer, and I, were riding along a branch of the old Placerville road one day, we came to a wayside-ranch, and entered to ask the direction in which a certain point lay. The proprietor was asleep, and, as he awoke and rubbed his eyes, his first words were, "Have a cigar." He then went into an inner room, and brought out two bunches of grapes and a bundle of newspapers, which he presented to us. "Now," he said, sitting down and puffing his own cigar, "tell me what you want to know." It was just as natural for that man to offer his hospitality to all who entered the house as it was for him to breathe. On another occasion I heard one ranchman ask another for a postal-card. "Come over to the house an' git a dozen," was the answer; and that was an example of the generosity which voluntarily exceeds the demands made upon it, and which is nowhere else so common as in Nevada and California. From Glenbrook to Tallac there is a good road, and from Tallac to McKinney's there is an execrable trail, half buried in a confusing growth of underbrush, which is so difficult that it prevents the ordinary tourist from reaching Emerald Bay except by water. Emerald Bay reminds me of a Norwegian fiord; it is an indenture about a mile long in the precipitous Californian or western wall of the lake, and it is deep, still, and clear. At its head a cascade breaks over a ledge nearly a thousand feet high, and leaps down the rocky slope through a dense archway of pines, which opens occasionally and discloses the flashing white of the tumultuous water to persons standing on the edge of the bay below. Where the water forms a pool, it is now and then thrown back on its course, and the brilliant trout dodge to and fro at leisure. Then it strikes some stepping-stones of rocks, and it seems to be going both ways at once, or it subsides in a smooth, eddying corner. After many more tricks, all performed with a seeming desire to display, it takes another ledge, and repeats its previous antics with endless variations. Happy the trout in such an aquatic paradise! Emerald Bay is secluded, and the brook's audience is not often large; but, should the spectator trace the cascade over the ledge, he would find its source on a high plateau inclosed by snow-incrusted peaks. The banks of the bay are almost impassable; they are from seven hundred to a thousand feet high, and are meshed in a wondrously fine variety of evergreens and arborescent vegetation. Down the northern wall, however, there is a conspicuous streak of barrenness where a land-slide has torn away the thin coating of soil with every bit of verdure; and at one side of this sear patch stands a little summer-house, sometimes occupied by the family of a wealthy Californian, but oftener by an old sailor, who is the sole tenant during the long winter months. storm; we were drenched to the skin, and the refuge of a cozy little parlor ornamented with a sailor's odds and ends, and warmed by a cheery fire of resinous logs, again gave us occasion to be thankful for Californian hospitality. The triangulation of Lake Tahoe absorbed our party for nearly two months, and we afterward went northward to Truckee, which is in the heart of the Sierras, and within a short distance of the summit, the Central Pacific Railway passing through the town, and thence threading the mountains by forty continuous miles of snow sheds. Our camp remained for several days at Prosser Creek, an abandoned station of the old emigrant-road to California, and during these days we enjoyed the luxury of rooms in the hotel of the station, which is now tenanted by a lumberman, his son, a boarder, and a Chinese cook-the latter being the most profane, the slyest, the quaintest, and the most humorous waif of Mongolia that had hitherto crossed the writer's path. Truckee has the usual idiosyncrasies of new towns in the far West. It has blossomed in a row of twostoried buildings, in which the business of the place is concentrated-the juxtaposition of dissimilar interests striking a stranger oddly: the passing throng epitomizes many different races and nations - Asiatic, American, and European-and horsemen are commoner than pedestrians. On the outskirts stands Chinatown, a bilious-looking collection of huts surrounded by an atmosphere of its own; and the more select neighborhood has developed a few villas with Mansard-roofs. Truckee has been wholly rebuilt twice or three times after destruction by fire, and, say or think what one may of the moral tone of the town, it is impossible not to admire the energetic spirit of the inhabitants. The population is some twenty-five hundred, about one-third being Chinamen. We, sir," said a grandiloquent citizen to the writer, "have no strong prejudice against the Celestial; on the contrary, we encourage him, inasmuch as he does our work for one-third less than a white would charge." A short distance from Truckee, framed in mountains of pine, is Donner Lake, which is about three miles long and a mile and a half wide. It does not equal Tahoe, Fallen-Leaf Cascade, or Echo, in beauty, but any one unfamiliar with the others might wonder how it could be surpassed. Snowy peaks inclose it on every side, the surface is smooth and brilliant, the depths are marvelously clear and blue, and a dark forest of pines presses hard upon the borders. Near the western end the massive form of Donner Peak rises white with snow long before the maples in the East have yet turned their color, and as we look down into the water the reflections are so distinct that we seem to be looking toward the sky. At the foot of the lake there is a level space and a grove of pines-the pines being notched by the axes of the ill-fated Donner party, whose history has given the neighborhood a melancholy interest. Seventy-six emigrants, mostly from Illinois, reached We reached the house in a cold October rain- the Sierras on October 31, 1846, a year in which the snow began about three weeks earlier than usual. They were caught by the storm in the Summit Valley, the basin of the lake, and could go no farther; they made preparations for the winter, but their food did not last, and they soon were confronted by the prospect of starvation. A hero among them went out alone for relief to the village of Yerba Buena, now San Francisco, and returned with help. Thirtysix persons had died in the mean time. When the relief-party started for San Francisco again, they were unable to take Mr. Donner, a farmer, who was very ill, and his wife insisted upon remaining with him. Keysbury, a German, was also left behind at his own request. In the following April, some men encamped one night on a high slope above Tahoe City, with a marsh directly below us and the tempestuous lake beyond, and as we stood around our pine-fire, a sprinkle of rain brought a few soft flakes of white with it out of the stormy clouds overhead. But these feathery heralds of the closing season, which we had expected and dreaded for weeks, were overcome by the rain, and when we awoke next morning the drops were pattering musically on our tents. We had recently occupied two strangely-pronged basaltic peaks, named "The Twins," and our next station was to be Devil's Peak, another singular upheaval in the same basaltic chain. Despite the threat under General Kearny were sent out to bring the Donners and Keysbury over the mountains. When they entered the camp, only Keysbury was alive; Donner's dead body lay in a tent, where it had evidently been laid out by his wife, but Mrs. Donner could not be found. Keysbury was reclining in one of the cabins, calmly smoking a pipe, and looking into a pan on the fire which was filled with human flesh, some more of which stood in a bucket. He no longer resembled nor acted like a human being, and was hanged for the murder of Mrs. Donner on his own confession. The closing days of our field-season made the episode of the Donners more vivid to us. We were ening weather, Lieutenant Macomb, our executive officer, and Mr. Carpenter, the topographer, decided to move camp to a point from which the peak could be readily ascended should the weather clear. We went down the Truckee River, which is the outlet of Lake Tahoe, and five miles below Tahoe City we turned into Squaw Valley, leading through some meadows and swamp to the foot of the mountains. Here, again, as at Fallen-Leaf Lake and Emerald Bay, the least imaginative and poetical members of our party were enraptured by the brilliant colors effected by the various greens of the foliage and the weathering of the rocks. Mauve and purple, with here and there a flash of scarlet or a touch of pale while the rain flooded the valley the snow fell on the peaks. The outlook was not by any means inspiriting for the topographer. The next day brought no change, and we crowded around the fire, suffering indescribable torments from the smoke, which filled our eyes and noştrils. All the beautiful colors of the mountains were enshrouded in a film of gray, and the broken outlines of the peaks were lost in the same weight of mist. All we could do to while away the tedious hours was first to thaw ourselves before the fire, then to retire within our tents, and read or write until we were frozen again, coming and going constantly, but never staying away from the smoking pine-wood long. ly on the ground, in big, heavy flakes, in whirling, distraught clouds, and in steady, slanting lines. It insheathed the whole landscape, leaving scarcely a point recognizable; it drifted in great hills and almost choked the little stream that passes through the valley, and it put an end to our field-work for that season. A desperate effort was made to attain the desired peak, but it proved to be impracticable, and we were forced into a milder region. No one who has not seen the severity of a snowstorm in the Western Sierras can understand the overwhelming persistence of snow, and the insuperable obstacles which these light, velvety, innocentlooking flakes raise-obstacles which make the whiteness the symbol of a shroud, and bury mountains and forests in a silent, merciless sea. On Thursday, October 28th, we awoke and found the snow piled up against our tents, spread over the ground to a depth of six inches, and so webbed over the trees that they looked like circular tents floating in the air. At noon, at night, through a pale-gray morning and a darker-gray afternoon, it still came in fine, blinding particles that packed themselves close-occupied areas of Nevada and California. About November 6th our party returned to Carson, and, after some work in the desolate valleys southward, it was disbanded, with three other parties of Lieutenant Wheeler's expedition, which had also them more agreeable companions than can be found in our deserted house. The hospital-surgeon you brought is a very worthy person. He reports quite favorably in regard to my father, but there is great difficulty in getting certain prescriptions." "I am pleased to say, mademoiselle, that Lieutenant Müller has sent to Munich for the medicines. They ought to be here to-day.' "It was done at your instigation?" "Not at all. If you have any thanks to give, they are entirely due to a gentleman whom you have apostrophized as coarse and brutal." An introduction took place, and, though Mademoiselle Delange held the Bavarian officer en grippe and was passably overbearing at times, after a while, strange to say, she commenced to like him. Was it a certain amount of female inquisitiveness which led her in a very natural way to make many inquiries in regard to M. Percival? It was a dreadful shock she received when she heard from Lieutenant Müller that Colonel Percival had been engaged to be married in America, and tears fell from her eyes when she learned how Colonel Percival's betrothed had died, when a false report had come of the colonel's death on the battle-field. "That was, I suppose, mademoiselle, the reason why my good friend Perci AUGHTY Lancelot, brave Geraint, bold Bedivere, might have been good King Arthur's choicest and most gallant knights, but, quartered in a castle, captured by them sword in hand, very certainly they would not have been desirable guests. Lieutenant Müller did what he could for the inmates of the château. He was more than a good-natured | conqueror-he was a sympathetic victor. Still.the condition of the occupants was not a pleasant one. Of pillage there was none, though in a few hours there was not a drop to drink nor a crumb to eat in the house. Babette's stores, discovered in an instant, were devoured before her eyes, though she fought bravely for them, and ruffled her feathers as uselessly as would a hen before a pack of wolves. If perhaps today some few articles of bric-à-brac adorn parlors in Munich and are labeled "Von dem Schlosse St.Eloi, Elsass, 1870," such little trophies may be considered simply as the legitimate fruits of conquest. For a tired soldier with muddy boots, a quilted sofa in the grand drawing-room of St.-Eloi was always inviting, and the pleasure of repose had in-val left America. With a very calm exterior, he hides creased charms, if his feet were comfortably placed. The piano was in constant demand, and was sonorous from morning to night. As to the billiard-tables, their clothes were worn threadbare in a week. As Lieutenant Müller had supposed, for having really done a gallant thing, he was placed by the German authorities for the time being in charge of the château. St.-Eloi, the town, had fallen without a blow. In a week nearly all the vestiges of the skirmish around the house had disappeared. The dead had been buried, the wounded had been carried to the town, where a temporary hospital had been established, and the abatis had been burned by the conquerors. Gradually the soldiers withdrew from the main body of the house, and were quartered in one of the wings. M. Percival, Lieutenant Müller, and two German officers, occupied the porter's lodge, which M. Percival was wise enough to have had comfortably furnished. Sentinels still kept watch and ward over St.-Eloi. With a certain amount of consideration, Lieutenant Muller, after an inspection of the house, had kept himself aloof from its inmates. It was M. Percival who acted as the parliamentarian intermedium. An introduction to Mademoiselle Delange became a necessity. When first mooted by M. Percival it was indifferently received. "He must be a coarse, brutal | character. You seem to enjoy his company. I can hear roars of laughter coming from the lodge. Your voice, sir, is distinguishable at times. You must be in perfect accord with our conquerors. Perhaps you are laughing at us! Very certainly you must deem some very strong emotions, which play the devil with a man. I am different. If I am shot, of course Bertha-for I am to marry Fräulein Bertha-would cry her eyes out. Had Colonel Percival not left the army he would have been a general. He was the fiercest man in a fight you ever saw. Do you know, mademoiselle, when I see him suddenly I forget myself at times and touch my cap to him, as if he were still my commanding officer? Oh, the good times we used to have together!" Those half-anxious days which followed the capture of the château, with its garrison and Lieutenant Müller, did not long continue, as Müller was ordered to the front, and some other officer took charge of the place. Matters grew worse. The change was not a pleasant one. A series of annoyances commenced, at first petty and disagreeable, but which at times were serious. M. Delange was not exactly a refractory prisoner, but an irritable one. He was impetuous, unguarded, and expressed his mind roundly with every new-comer. The lawn was a special subject of contention. Rather loutish officers stood in their position as victors, and were arrogant and overbearing in their behavior. As M. Delange's health improved, he became more and more irascible. A German uniform to him had the same effect as a red mantle on a bull, and he was forced to see at all times what was distasteful to him. Now, as new levies were collected and marched through Alsace, St.-Eloi, unfortunately, became a German military highway. Provisions began to be scarce, |