irected only: "Son mine--George Olaf." He
seemed to trust to some one on the way, to take an interest in their
reaching him.

The boy generally set up his hymn-book in some place where he could
occasionally glance at it, and chant his Russian hymns, while he was
about his work. On the other side, the nurse sang Dutch songs to the
baby.

JULY 1, 1873.

We have just returned from a long, rough journey in southern and western
Oregon. We crossed the Coast Range of mountains,--not so high and
snow-capped as the Cascades, but beautiful to watch in their variations
of light and shade, always the shadows of clouds travelling over them,
and mists stealing up through the dark ravines. A Dutchwoman--our
fellow-passenger--was in ecstasies, exclaiming continually: "How
beautiful is the land here! How _bracht_ [bright]!"--noticing all the
sun-lighted places; but I was more attracted by the shadows. I heard
another hard-looking woman say to a man, that she cried when she saw the
hills, they were so beautiful. There was a deep welcome in them;
something human and responsive seemed to fill the stillness. In these
solitary places, remote from all other associations, it seems as if
Nature could communicate more directly with us.

I noticed, more than I ever did before, the difference in the appearance
and bearing of the flowers; how some seemed only to flaunt themselves,
and others had so much more character. As we passed a little opening in
the woods, a great dark purple flower, that was a stranger to me, fixed
its gaze upon me so that I felt the look, as we sometimes do from human
eyes. Any thing supernatural is so in keeping with these solitary
places, I felt as if some one had assumed that form to greet me. There
were some beautiful new flowers; among them a snow-white iris, which was
very lovely. It seemed like a miracle that this fair little creature
should come up so unsoiled out of the rough, black earth.

We crossed the mountain range through a canyon. The road wound round and
round the sides of it, sometimes so narrow that it seemed hardly more
than an Indian trail. We had a true California driver, who shouted out
to us every few minutes, to hold on tight, or all to get together on one
side, or something equally suspicious; but dashed on without any regard
to danger. We were in constant expectation of being hurled to the
bottom; but it quickened our senses to enjoy the beauty about us, to
feel that any moment might be