these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army, and
had been fighting there with the Mexicans. I am glad you were not
killed, and got safe home again to Tennessee; for if you had been
killed, I should never have seen you; but now it is just as bad, if I am
never to see you again. O sir! I would write to you from that country
when we are settled there; but I fear you will forget me before then,
and will not care to hear anything more about us.

"I shall never forget our dear Tennessee. I am very sorry at leaving
it, and I am sure I can never be happy in California with all its gold--
for what good can gold be to me? I should so like to hear sometimes
from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the
only one we knew is gone away like ourselves.

"Maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us--only a very short letter,
to tell us how you get on with the clearing, and whether you have made
it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as I have heard father
say you intended to do. I shall always like to hear that you are in
good health, and that you are happy.

"I have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened to us. At the
mouth of the Obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time--for
we travelled all that night--we heard some one shouting to us, and O
Sir! it was so like your voice that I trembled when I heard it, for it
appeared as if it came down out of the clouds. It was a thick mist, and
we could see no one; but for all that, I would have cried out, but
father would not let me speak. It appeared to be right above our heads;
and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into a tree. I
suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it
had been you that shouted, and as I knew you could not be there, it made
me wonder all the more.

"We arrived at this place yesterday. It is a large town on the Arkansas
river: and we came to it in a steam-boat. From here we are to travel in
a waggon with a great many other people in what they call a `caravan,'
and they say we shall be many months in getting to the end of the
journey. It is a long time to wait before I can write again, for there
are no towns beyond Van Buren, and no post to carry a letter. But
though I cannot write to you, I will not forget to think of the words
you said to me, as I am now thinking of them every minute. In one of my
mother's books which I brought