"Lower Coast," near New Orleans. He wanders along, half asleep.
This hillside is no magnolia grove.

It is but a year since he joined the great "Pathfinder's" third
voyage over the lonely American Desert. He has toiled across to
the Great Salt Lake, down the dreary Humboldt, and over the snowy
Sierras.

Down by Walker's Lake the "pathfinders" have crept into the valley
of California. As he shields his face from biting winds, he can see
again the panorama of the great plains, billowy hills, and broad
vistas, tantalizing in their deceptive nearness. Thundering herds
of buffalo and all the wild chivalry of the Sioux and Cheyennes
sweep before him. The majestic forests of the West have darkened
his way. The Great Salt Lake, a lonely inland sea; Lake Tahoe, a
beautiful jewel set in snowy mountains; and its fairy sisters near
Truckee--all these pass before his mental vision.

But the youth is tired. Onward ever, like the "Wandering Jew,"
still to the West with Fremont.

Pride and hot southern blood nerve him in conflicts with the fierce
savages. Dashing among the buffalo, he has ridden in many a wild
chase where a single stumble meant death. His rifle has rung the
knell of elk and bear, of wolf and panther.

These varied excitements repaid the long days of march, but the
Louisianian is mercurial. Homeward wander his thoughts.

Hemmed in, with starvation near, in the Sierras, he welcomes this