arewell to the beautiful forest
which I shall probably never see again.

Here another funny thing happened. Everything funny seems to happen at
the end of our trip. The driver (a new one, not the one of yesterday)
after a long silence, and having changed a piece of straw he was
chewing from one side of his mouth to the other many times, made up his
mind to speak. I did not speak first, though I longed to, as I am told
it is not wise to speak to the man at the wheel, especially when the
wheel happens to be a California coach and six horses.

"A beautiful day," the driver ventured.

"Yes," I said, "it is one of the most beautiful days I have ever seen."

He, after a long pause, said, "Was you in the hotel parlor last night?"

"Yes," I said, "I was."

"Did you hear that lady sing?"

"Yes, I did. Did you?"

"You bet I did. I was standing with the rest of the folks out on the
piazza."

How curious it would be to hear a wild Western unvarnished,
unprejudiced judgment of myself! "What did you think of her singing?" I
asked my companion.

He replied by asking, "Have you ever heard a nightingale, ma'm?"

"Oh yes, many times," I answered, wondering what he would say next.

"Wal, I guess some of them nightingales will have to take a back seat
when she sings."

I actually blushed with pride. I considered this was the greatest
compliment I had ever had.

We arrived safely, without any adventure, at Sacramento, where John
Cadwalader left us, and the rest of the party continued as far as
Chicago together, where we bade each other good-by, each going his
different way.

CAMBRIDGE, _June, 1877_.

My dear Sister,--Sarah Bernhardt is playing in Boston now, much to
Boston's delight. I went to see her at the Tremont House, where she is
staying. She looked enchanting, and was dressed in her most
characteristic manner, in a white dress with a border of fur. Fancy, in
this heat! She talked about Paris, her latest successes, asked after
Nina, and finally--what I wanted most to know--her impressions of
America.

This is her first visit. I found that she seemed to be cautious about
expressing her opinions. She said she was surprised to see how many
people in America understood French. "Really?" I answered. "It did not
strike me so the other evening when I heard you in 'La Dame aux
Camelias.'" "I don't mean the public," she replied. "It apparently
understands very little, and the turning of the leaves of the librettos
dis