of the Humboldt, and at the town of Wells I bid it farewell for good.
Wells is named from a group of curious springs near the town. They are
supposed to be extinct volcanoes, now filled with water; and report says
that no sounding-line has yet been found long enough to fathom the bottom.
Some day when some poor, unsuspecting tenderfoot is peering inquisitively
down one of these well-like springs, the volcano may suddenly come into
play again and convert the water into steam that will shoot him clear
up into the moon. These volcanoes may have been soaking in water for
millions of years; but they are not to be trusted on that account; they
can be depended upon to fill some citizen full of lively surprise one
of these days. Everything here is surprising. You look across the desert
and see flowing water and waving trees; but when you get there, with
your tongue hanging out and your fate wellnigh sealed, you are surprised
to find nothing but sand and rocks. You climb a mountain expecting to
find trees and birds' eggs, and you are surprised to find high-water
marks and sea-shells. Finally, you look in the looking-glass and are
surprised to find that the wind and exposure have transformed your nice
blonde complexion to a semi-sable hue that would prevent your own mother
from recognizing you.

The next day, when nearing the entrance to Moutella Pass, over the Goose
Creek Range, I happen to look across the mingled sagebrush and juniper-spruce
brush to the right, and a sight greets my eyes that causes me to
instinctively look around for a tall tree, though well knowing that there
is nothing of the kind for miles; neither is there any ridable road near,
or I might try my hand at breaking the record for a few miles. Standing
bolt upright on their hind legs, by the side of a clump of juniper-spruce
bushes and intently watching my movements, are a pair of full-grown
cinnamon bears. When a bear sees a man before the man happens to descry
him, and fails to betake himself off immediately, it signifies that he