was home to me.

In Nantucket, no one thought much about the army. The uniform of the
regulars was never seen there. The profession of arms was scarcely known
or heard of. Few people manifested any interest in the life of the Far
West. I had, while there, felt out of touch with my oldest friends. Only
my darling old uncle, a brave old whaling captain, had said: "Mattie, I
am much interested in all you have written us about Arizona; come right
down below and show me on the dining-room map just where you went."

Gladly I followed him down the stairs, and he took his pencil out and
began to trace. After he had crossed the Mississippi, there did not seem
to be anything but blank country, and I could not find Arizona, and it
was written in large letters across the entire half of this antique map,
"Unexplored."

"True enough," he laughed. "I must buy me a new map."

But he drew his pencil around Cape Horn and up the Pacific coast, and
I described to him the voyages I had made on the old "Newbern," and his
face was aglow with memories.

"Yes," he said, "in 1826, we put into San Francisco harbor and sent
our boats up to San Jose for water and we took goats from some of those
islands, too. Oh! I know the coast well enough. We were on our way to the
Ar'tic Ocean then, after right whales."

But, as a rule, people there seemed to have little interest in the army
and it had made me feel as one apart.

Gila City was our first camp; not exactly a city, to be sure, at that
time, whatever it may be now. We were greeted by the sight of a few old
adobe houses, and the usual saloon. I had ceased, however, to dwell upon
such trifles as names. Even "Filibuster," the name of our next camp,
elicited no remark from me.

The weather was fine beyond description. Each day, at noon, we got out
of the ambulance, and sat down on the warm white sand, by a little clump
of mesquite, and ate our luncheon. Coveys of quail flew up and we shot
them, thereby insuring a good supper.

The mules trotted along contentedly on the smooth white road, which
followed the south bank of the Gila River. Myriads of lizards ran out
and looked at us. "Hello, here you are again," they seemed to say.

The Gila Valley in December was quite a different thing from the Mojave
desert in September; and although there was not much to see, in that
low, flat country, yet we three were joyous and happy.

Good health again was mine, the travelling was ideal, there were no