of nature, and how sweet her, breath after the sights, sounds, and
smells of the night!

I did not wait for breakfast, but had my pinto and buggy brought out,
and, bidding Pete good-by, hurried on to Stockton.

"So you were corralled last night?" was the remark of a friend, quoted
at the beginning of this true sketch. "What was the name of the
proprietor of the house?"

I gave him the name.

"Dave W--!" he exclaimed with fresh astonishment. "That is the roughest
place in the San Joaquin Valley. Several men have been killed and robbed
there during the last two or three years."

I hope Pete got back safe to his wife and children in Iowa; and I hope I
may never be corralled again.



The Reblooming.

It is now more than twenty years since the morning a slender youth of
handsome face and modest mien came into my office on the corner of
Montgomery and Clay streets, San Francisco. He was the son of a preacher
well known in Missouri and California, a man of rare good sense, caustic
wit, and many eccentricities. The young man became an attache of my
newspaper-office and an inmate of my home. He was as fair as a girl, and
refined in his taste and manners. A genial taciturnity, if the