Across the Mexican Mountains 1 19 



the foaming little torrent, and spread his wings 

 half open, the pinions lowest. He headed up 

 stream, keeping at the bottom, and went about 

 feeding in the crevices of the rocks with as much 

 ease, if not as rapidly, as a bird in the air. 



July lOth. Early as we start, no one murmurs. 

 I am writing a few yards apart from Mess No. 12, 

 a queer lot. Rhoades, who has crossed the plains 

 from Fort Independence to Santa Fe eleven times, 

 and Barrat, a wagoner of the Mexican War, are 

 both very original, and perhaps would not get on 

 well with the others but for Dr. Trask, a truly 

 good man, who is their Captain. It is a misty 

 morning, fire more of smoke than warmth, tent 

 wet, blankets cold and clammy, and we are wait- 

 ing for them to dry before packing. The roll has 

 been called, and each mess is preparing break- 

 fast. I hear Dr. Trask courteously ask: "iVre 

 those plates clean?" and Rhoades's nonchalant 

 answer: "To be sure they are, didn't we eat off 

 'em last night." 



July I2th. Concepcion. Yesterday we passed 

 oaks with a heavy leaf, glazed on the top, so as to 

 look as rich as the magnolia grandiflora of Louis- 

 iana. Raspberries are abundant but not ripe, and 

 strawberries plentiful. We camped on ground 

 covered with dwarf huckleberries, and a species 

 of plantain of which our mules ate freely, but the 

 horses sparsely. 



