When the red evening faded behind the limitless ocean, and the solemn night hung its thick mantle before the sun, and in its grandeur, brought a hush upon human life, a light still stood in the western windows of that home. She was the Orient of its mornings, and the Hesper of its nights-a silver star above the midnight of all human sadness. Nettie was a perpetual song in that home. Whatever tumult came from the friction of life around her, whatever discord from the heart of care, her young life and heart were only musical, and she charmed the jarring life around her into tune. Her voice, uttering the simple impulses of her nature was music-singing all day, the cadences of an earthly joy or the hymns of a higher life-it was melody. Her slight frail form, bounding in happiness along, scarcely touching the earth, moved rythmically. Her very step was music along the hall and on the stair. The murmurs of affection, that were exstacies, the tones of love imperishable, the whispers of sadness, that was pity itself, the "good night,"the glad welcome,-the "good bye" all came in music. Her life was a life of music, and 'tis murmuring yet about us. Do you not hear it? hush! If you will be quite silent some times and listen, I am sure you will be thrilled by it, for though she has gone, the tremulous tones of that life and the sweet vibrations of their departure still echo here. And this light and song has been called away from that home, from the -heart of hearts" where she was enthroned, and from us. But we will look upward and be silent for "He doeth all things well." We will try and bear the bereavement. We believe she has gone HOME. She went trustingly. She was not thrilled with fear when the messenger called Death-came for her. Her eyes only grew large and bright with wonder at the visions she saw. He came like a gentle angel with an inverted torch, and taking her hand, he led her up the long pathway into the celestial paradise. She felt she was going to receive the beatitudes of the Master, and no complaining, no murmur, no utterance of fear, came from her lips. Only a crystal tear stood up on the casket of her soul as she left it. The little form, "beautiful even in death "-temple of her gentle spirit, has been quietly laid away. They placed it among the flowers, saying "A child that we have loved has gone to heaven And by this gate of flowers she passed away." On the calm bosom of "Lone Mountain" it has been placed-to rest forever. It is a silent spot, and when you go there sometimes to try to get nearer to her, you will hear little, save the solemn beat of the Pacific Sea. The timid song-sparrow may whistle above her pillow sometimes, and the humming bird in crimson and emerald may whir among the yellow poppies upon her couch, that's all. But the boom of the great ocean goes up there forever. It is her dirge. You will see Nettie with your eyes, no more. She has " gone before." A slight figure will glide by you in the street sometimes, and you will turn to look again, but the illusion will vanish, instantly. A blue eye and a smile in the crowd will catch your gaze and hold it a minute, but the shifting scene will dispel the vision. A sweet voice will come upon your ear and you will start quickly, but she will not be there. Before your mortal eyes she'll come no more. But sometimes in the silence of sleep, in the "starry midnight," she will steal quietly before the eyes of your soul, and you will see her then, standing-a child-spirit among the immortal children. She will not speak to you. She cannot tell you of the unutterable splendor there. But you will know it is Nettie tho' so holy. The same calm face and serene beauty and spiritual eyes will tell you it is Nettie. If she should whisper to you, you could never forget it. If she should beckon to you, you would go to her presently. And when your sleep is broken you will wonder that you are not with her. So celestial-so sanctified-so immortal, Nettie stands in our memory. THE VOICE OF A SPIRIT. A MINER'S REVERIE. I am but a dream, time is as eternity, seasons and years hold me not, I gaze into the wrinkled locks of frosty winter, ride upon the storm's dread front, look upon the sunshine afar off, lying like a sleeping infant cradled in a tropical vale. My days and years are as the stately Missouri, gathering pebbles from the glens of the Rocky Mountains, the Ohio's wide flood, ranging empires, uniting and blending in the father of waters, the mighty Mississippi, rolling into the ocean in the widened gulf stream, striking against the coasts of Labrador, freighted with lofty icebergs, casting them upon the coasts of the Old World, moving down the slopes of Africa, rushing across the Atlantic, up and on through the isles of the Caribbean Sea, circling on, forever and forever. Zoroaster and Mahommed are familiar companions; I smile with Heraclitus, and weep with Democritus, upon the follies and crimes of men. Space is obliterated, I wander with the comets amidst the stars that roll in their orbits along the bounds of the universe, and mark their regular and endless revolutions. Then as I grow weary of these, I come back again to our earth, sit myself down upon some lofty mountain brow and listen, for pastime, to the noise and murmur of an assembled world, all sounds borne upon the air, no matter how harsh the means that produce them, or how hoarse they grate upon mortal ears, come up unto me, mellowed by distance, worn of their asperities, undulating as the music of a soft lute from some garden bower. Then I fly to some overhanging cliff that looks out upon the rolling main, revelling amidst the waters and dark rolling billows mingle with the spirit of the storm; and when the waves subside, and the hush of nature is all around me, I count the dead swells of the sea, and am charmed with their triplicity. The universe to me is the full chord of one vast diapason, all space is vocal with the music of nature, perfect in all its parts, boundlessly beautiful, and endless in symphony. But alas, flesh and blood chain me to the earth, my spirit's wanderings are vain and profitless, they bring not food for the body, nor supplies for its varied wants; the sunrise of each day wakes me to life's stern duties. I toil for daily bread, am pelted by the snows and storms of winter that fall and howl around my home amid the Sierras. O, that the God of nature had implanted in me, none but aspirations to supply earthly wants, methinks I had been far happier. I see around me, even in the rocks amidst which I toil, the dead relics of fleeting centuries, antediluvian life bristles here in its rocky tombs, fossilized and preserved for me to wonder upon, study and meditate; can I refuse to ponder upon these footprints as they rise in succession from group to group? The primeval series, Molusks and Zoophytes, snails and periwinkles. Then cephalalares, glyptolipes, pterichthys, lischens, mosses, ferns and fungi. Then lizards, crocodiles and alligators. Then marine mammalia, seals, grampuses and whales. Then elephants, rhinoceros, hippopottamuses, ostriches, condors, helmet headed cassowaries, and at last to complete the series of gradations from the lowest to the highest, crowning the whole, is man. But when I look within myself as one for the whole, what do I find? A being full of varied instincts, endowed with reason and intelligence, capable of mighty deeds; but chiefly fritting away life's precious moments in endeavors to accomplish unattainable things; full of lofty aspirations, full of low and ing. grovelling pursuits, performing deeds | nature's field, about this Supreme Bein body and mind that would shame the face of day, and were they known unto men would place many,-O how infinitely too many!-upon the black rolls of infamy. Yet in me there is a ruling instinct high over all, it is an innate desire for immortality. I look, guided by this same instinctive desire, with the eye, of observation, and reason, through all time, and see, as above described, development of forms are rising one above another, each more perfect than the former; this gives me aspirations and desires that I too may rise. But when I look again, I behold that life is built upon death, that the very atoms composing our bodies are the same that for century upon century, have gone to make up all vegetable and animal life. I am perhaps at this moment, composed of dead serpents, monkeys, dogs, mastodons, elephants, etc., that perished in antediluvian years. The very thought in itself is loathsome; but then, at times I loathe mankind, and fancy that I can behold in the faces of those around me, the type of every animal that ever perished; the hyæna in one, a prowling demon; the serpent in another, coiling his subthe folds; the lion in another, brave, bold and dauntless. I know that it is uncharitable, but these thoughts are in me. I am made up of many conflicting thoughts. At other moments, benevolence holds my purse-strings, and I feel charity unto all men; but looking carefully throughout the universe, do I see the evidence there to satisfy me of the fulfilment of that desire that is in us all, the paramount wish for happiness and immortality? I see in the broad field of nature, marked upon every blade of grass, every leaf that trembles in the soft air of spring, evidence that there is a God; there must be a Creator, an intelligence above our own. There is in us a greater or less desire to know more than we can see in I have passed over the tomes of the past; made myself familiar with the views of the great men of former ages, their schemes of salvation and views of immortality; what they have said of the soul and its mysterious connections with the body, and I have searced profane history in vain for the plan of salvation that satisfies the full wants of the soul. Man could not originate the plan, it was left for God himself, and fulfilled in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. No man ever lived that equalled him in beauty and symmetry of person, in godlike attributes, and actions. Man cannot propose such a plan of salvation. The Saviour's death was the most sublime scene ever recorded in history. "Socrates died like a philosopher; but Jesus Christ, like a God." My situation is that of many; the mountains are full of men, toiling for subsistance; they are found in every cañon, and on the hill-tops. Many have given up in despair, and turned drunkards, gamblers, loafers, villains and scapegraces. Others have gone down to untimely graves, beneath the weight of corroding cares; but I will not succumb, nor give up. I will maintain my own self-respect and endeavor to deserve the respect of others. I as firmly believe that industry, perseverance and energy will finally succeed, as that there is a future life, of which this is but the beginning; these qualities are always equal to talents, and often superior; thousands of examples all over our country, lead me onward. "Excelsior," should be our motto under all circumstances. No matter how lowly your situation or how dejected your thoughts, there is hope of success while there is life. The whole field of nature was created by God himself, and given you for a heritage. The earth, the air, the sun that illumines the heavens, the stars that gem the universe, all, all minister OUR INTERPRETER. BY DOINGS. Ho, ho ho, ho! for the mountains, the snow-capped mountains! where rough old Boreas holds his winter revels, where the summer sun shines sweetly through thick foliage of evergreens; the birth-place of sparkling springs and laughing rivulets; where the eagle finds his home, and where Nature sitting in all her majesty and loveliness, holds perpetual jublilee !— Come with me if you will, to Independence bar, on Nelson Creek. It was here that we halted in the fall of '50, when on our way to Marysville; we had been many, many miles further into the mountains, and had been successful, for we had found what we had sought after. Hitherto in all our journeyings we had walked, but now Doc's shoes had given out, and his feet were very sore, in fact the night previous we were obliged to help him into camp. Old Bill had been to the mouth of the Creek and there learned that a packtrain would leave that place for Grass Valley after dinner, and upon his return proposed that we should ride; this appeared to meet the views of all; we thought it a fine idea, and wondered how a ride would seem after so long a walk. But Bill said the mules belonged to a Spaniard, and we must find some one to interpret for us; after searching for some little time an interpreter was found; he was a Frenchman, a very little Frenchman, not over five feet in height, and with so much hair on the place where his face ought to be, that it was somewhat doubtful if he had any face; but there was a pair of eyes there, black, sharp, piercing eyes; and he had a voice too, a perfect French voice; so sweet, so musical, in short, he was French all over. As he approached our party, he indulged in a succession of low bows; French bows; and after embracing each, proceeded in very broken English to inform us, that by profession he was a Doctor; that he spoke the Spanish language as fluently as he did English; that he had been unfortunate, and wishes to leave the mountains, and will officiate as our interpreter. Quite frequently during these preliminary remarks, he has folded his hands, placed them upon his stomach, and with his head thrown back, and eyes rolling upwards, ejaculated Ah! ma Belle France! ma Belle France! why for I did leave I thee." He was about to give us the minute detail of his many afflictions, when Phin suddenly brought him to business, by telling him in language not at all French to "Dry!"-a few French apologies for intruding his private affairs upon us and he was ready to attend us. The owner of the train was one through whose veins the blood of old Spain was flowing; he was tall and straight, with a pleasing countenance; from the corrugations of his face, and the white so plentifully mingled with his once black hair, I judged that he had seen the sun of more than fifty summers; his entire appearance was prepossessing, and his manners bespoke the gentleman. I became at once interested in him, and regretted we could not converse, that I might learn something of his history, for that he had not always been a mule driver I felt assured. For the sum of five dollars each, including the Frenchman, the Capitan" agreed to pack us to Grass Valley. About 1 o'clock the party mounted and commenced to ascend the hill-hill we called it, but from base to apex 'twas full five miles, and in many places almost perpendicular. The train consisted of thirty mules, and besides the owner, the Frenchman, and ourselves, five "Vaqueros." The mules were without bridies, and caparisoned with pack-saddies or aparejos upon which we rode. To describe those saddles, I am at a loss; in shape they were not unlike a juvenile mattress, firmly secured over the mule's back; the stuffing, however, did not in the least resemble that of a feather, hair, palm, or even straw mattress, but if leather shavings ever were used for such a purpose, then 'twas leather shavings we rode upon. We found them more comfortable than we anticipated, for they were so thick, that when going up hill we could assume a position very much like sitting upon a barrel with our knees bent over the head, and a firm grip with our hands to the chime; and thus we rode up the steepest acclivities; when descending we reversed our positions and faced the tail of the mule. This was a new degree in equestrianism, and we enjoyed it much. Imagine, if you can, this party, covered with rags and patches, slip-shod, slouched hats, long hair and beards, faces rather dark and dirty, sitting upon those saddles, and ascending or descending some steep acclivity; each with a new clay pipe protruding from his mouth, the stem of which is at least eighteen inches in length. The pipes were purchased at the creek, and such satisfaction did they give that they were hardly out of our mouths. Many were the joyous peals of laughter that echoed and re-echoed among those woods and hills, for we presented such a ludicrous appearance to each other, that even Doc who was quite unwell, could not refrain from joining in our mirth. It was near night when we reached the summit of the hill (?) and here we found a cool, refreshing spring, and a fine flat covered with rich grass, and here we determined to camp. ter selecting a spot to spread our blankets, and having eaten our suppers, we gathered about the camp-fires of the Mexicans, smoked our pipes, and witnessed the manufactory of Tortilliosteres as follows: each one took a piece of dough about the size of a small egg, this they commence to press between the palms of their hands, and then to throw from one to the other, until it was as thin as a wafer and large enough to cover a dinner-plate; it was then thrown upon hot coals, and in a few seconds cooked. The vaqueros continued to make and cook tortillios, until a small sized pile had accumulated, I should say about three feet six inches Af |