RALDA, CAL., Aug. 15, 1862.

MY DEAR SISTER,-I mailed a letter to you and Ma this morning, but since
then I have received yours to Orion and me. Therefore, I must answer
right away, else I may leave town without doing it at all. What in
thunder are pilot's wages to me? which question, I beg humbly to
observe, is of a general nature, and not discharged particularly at you.
But it is singular, isn't it, that such a matter should interest Orion,
when it is of no earthly consequence to me? I never have once thought
of returning home to go on the river again, and I never expect to do
any more piloting at any price. My livelihood must be made in this
country--and if I have to wait longer than I expected, let it be so--I
have no fear of failure. You know I have extravagant hopes, for Orion
tells you everything which he ought to keep to himself--but it's his
nature to do that sort of thing, and I let him alone. I did think for
awhile of going home this fall--but when I found that that was and had
been the cherished intention and the darling aspiration every year, of
these old care-worn Californians for twelve weary years--I felt a little
uncomfortable, but I stole a march on Disappointment and said I would
not go home this fall. I will spend the winter in San Francisco, if
possible. Do not tell any one that I had any idea of piloting again at
present--for it is all a mistake. This country suits me, and--it shall
suit me, whether or no....

Dan Twing and I and Dan's dog, "cabin" together--and will continue to do
so for awhile--until I leave for--

The mansion is 10x12, with a "domestic" roof. Yesterday it rained--the
first shower for five months. "Domestic," it appears to me, is not
water-proof. We went outside to keep from getting wet. Dan makes the bed
when it is his turn to do it--and when it is my turn, I don't, you know.
The dog is not a good hunter, and he isn't worth shucks to watch--but he
scratches up the dirt floor of the cabin, and catches flies, and makes
himself generally useful in the way of washing dishes. Dan gets up first
in the morning and makes a fire--and I get up last and sit by it,
while he cooks breakfast. We have a cold lunch at noon, and I cook
supper--very much against my will. However, one must have one good meal
a day, and if I were to live on Dan's abominable cookery, I should lose
my appetite, you know. Dan attended Dr. Chorpenning's funeral yesterday,
and he felt as though he ought to wear a whit