ing done and but little said about the
atrocity. Foreigners barred from working at Rich Bar. Spaniards
thereupon move to Indian Bar. They erect places for the sale of
intoxicants. Many new houses for public entertainment at Indian Bar.
Sunday "swearing, drinking, gambling, and fighting". Salubrity of the
climate. No death for months, except by accidental drowning in
floodwater. Capture of grizzly cubs. "The oddest possible pets". "An
echo from the outside world once a month."

Letter _the_ Sixteenth

BIRTH--STABBING--FOREIGNERS OUSTED--REVELS

_From our Log Cabin_, INDIAN BAR,

_May_ 1, 1852.

You have no idea, my good little M., how reluctantly I have seated
myself to write to you. The truth is, that my last tedious letter about
mining and other tiresome things has completely exhausted my scribbling
powers, and from that hour to this the epistolary spirit has never
moved me forward. Whether on that important occasion my small brain
received a shock from which it will never recover, or whether it is
pure physical laziness which influenced me, I know not; but this is
certain, that no whipped schoolboy ever crept to his hated task more
unwillingly than I to my writing-desk on this beautiful morning.
Perhaps my indisposition to soil paper in your behalf is caused by the
bewildering scent of that great, glorious bouquet of flowers which,
gathered in the crisp mountain air, is throwing off cloud after cloud
("each cloud _faint_ with the fragrance it bears") of languid
sweetness, filling the dark old room with incense and making of it a
temple of beauty, like those pure angelic souls which, irradiating a
plain countenance, often render it more lovely than the chiseled finish
of the most perfect features.

O Molly! how I wish that I could send you this jar of flowers,
containing, as it does, many which, in New England, are rare exotics.
Here you will find in richest profusion the fine-lady elegance of the
syringa; there, glorious white lilies, so pure and stately; the
delicate yet robust beauty of the exquisite privet; irises of every hue
and size; and, prettiest of all, a sweet snow-tinted flower, looking
like immense clusters of seed-pearl, which the Spaniards call "libla."
But the marvel of the group is an orange-colored blossom, of a most
rare and singular fragrance, growing somewhat in the style of the flox.
This, with some branches of pink bloom of incomparable sweetness, is
entirely new to me. Since I ha