thly
pilgrimage. The inconvenience which she suffered during what George
Sand calls "the sublime martyrdom of maternity" would appal the wife of
the humblest pauper of a New England village. Another woman, also from
the West, was with her at the time of her infant's birth, but scarcely
had the "latest-found" given the first characteristic shriek of its
debut upon the stage of life, when this person herself was taken
seriously ill, and was obliged to return to her own cabin, leaving the
poor exhausted mother entirely alone! Her husband lay seriously sick
himself at the time, and of course could offer her no assistance. A
miner, who lived in the house, and hoarded himself, carried her some
bread and tea in the morning and evening, and that was all the care she
had. Two days after its birth, she made a desperate effort, and, by
easy stages of ten minutes at a time, contrived to get poor baby washed
and dressed, after a fashion. He is an astonishingly large and strong
child, holds his head up like a six-monther, and has but one
failing,--a too evident and officious desire to inform everybody, far
and near, at all hours of the night and day, that his lungs are in a
perfectly sound and healthy condition,--a piece of intelligence which,
though very gratifying, is rather inconvenient if one happens to be
particularly sleepy.

Besides Mrs. B., there are three other women on the Bar. One is called
"the Indiana girl," from the name of her pa's hotel, though it must be
confessed that the sweet name of _girl_ seems sadly incongruous when
applied to such a gigantic piece of humanity. I have a great desire to
see her, which will probably not be gratified, as she leaves in a few
days for the valley. But, at any rate, I can say that I have _heard_
her. The far-off roll of her mighty voice, booming through two closed
doors and a long entry, added greatly to the severe attack of nervous
headache under which I was suffering when she called. This gentle
creature wears the thickest kind of miner's boots, and has the dainty
habit of wiping the dishes on her apron! Last spring she _walked_ to
this place, and packed fifty pounds of flour on her back down that
awful hill, the snow being five feet deep at the time.

Mr. and Mrs. B., who have three pretty children, reside in a log cabin
at the entrance of the village. One of the little girls was in the
barroom to-day, and her sweet and birdlike voice brought tearfully, and
yet joyfully, to my me