teams and many such men, each fighting his
way among Sioux, and Blackfoot, and Snake,
until we find him in Oregon, Idaho,
Nevada, or Washington territory, and
possibly he even roams down, open mouthed in his
wonder, to " Californy." But this part of the
world is generally too civilised for him, and the
polished Californians are not kindly affected to
the individual in buckskin or homespun,
whom they profanely style the " yallar-bellied
Missourian."

The pioneer of pioneers must have been one
Jedediah S. Smith (called "Jed" for shortness),
who, on the 20th of December, 1826, strayed
too far into the Great Desert, and from want
of provision and water to get home with, was
compelled to push forward. It therefore stands
upon record as one of the many triumphs
of the Smith family, that one of them was the
first to make the overland trip from the
"States" to California. Fortunately Jedediah
found American shipmasters from Boston and
Nantucket who vouched for his honest
intentions and perfect harmlessness. He had
attempted, during the latter part of the
preceding winter to make his way up the
Columbia River, but the snow was so deep on the
mountains that he was obliged to return. Being
informed by one of the Christian Indians that
the father would like to know who he was,
Jedediah wrote a letter to Father Duran, who
lived at San Jose, in which he honestly
confessed that he was destitute of clothing and
most of the necessaries of life, that his horses
had perished for want of food and water, that
his object was to trap for beavers and furs, and
in conclusion he signed himself, "Your strange
but real friend and christian brother." Jed
has been followed since then by many thousands,
scattered now along the frontier. Among
them it was my pleasant lot to wander many a
day, and if they were queer fellows, they were
good fellows; of more use to the world, I think,
than many a fine gentleman who has never
lifted heavier tool than an opera-glass, or served
his country with a stroke of thought.

NO COMMUNICATION.

WE were closely packed (in number, thirteen
of us) in the middle compartment of a second-
class carriage on the Midland line, some two
years ago. Our carriage was the centre carriage
of a long train, and the compartments on either
side were empty. The journey, from Bedford
to London, was express, the pace near fifty
miles an hour. We had stopped at only one
little station, and we were now off on a clear
run of forty miles, to be done in ten minutes
under the hour, without stoppage. The oil-
lamp in the roof of the carriage, flickered
pale and wan in the broad daylight—for it
was noontide—and in the glass cup beneath, a
spoonful of oil wagged and jogged and lurched
about with the motion. The company was
monotonous and taciturn. Being wedged in
the middle of the seat between two gentlemen
of enormous proportions, where it was
impossible to command a window, I took to
looking at this drop of wagging oil as the only
available object that kept time to the jolting and
swaying and clatter of the train. Although
watching the drop of oil intently, and noting the
lively interest it seemed to evince in our progress
—leaping forward as we ran whish-sh past a
station, or vibrating as cr-r-r-sh-shoot we shot
by another train—I was aware of the wainscotted
woodwork round it and the painted oak shingle
that seemed to dance and quiver with our motion.
I saw it without looking at it. What surprised
and puzzled me, however, was this: my
eyes told me the pattern of the wainscot was
changing. New shingle seemed to rise up and
swallow up the old, and then the whole
appeared to rise and fall in tiny waves. The
solution my mind suggested was, that I had
biologised my sight, the oil-lamp serving as a disc.

My fellow-passengers began to talk. I heard
them, my eyes were still fastened on the
jolting drop of oil, which was beating time to a
tune that engine, carriages, and rails, were
playing in my head.

"Anybody smoking?" a deep voice said,
snappishly.

It seemed there was not.

"Then something is burning," another voice
said.

"It's only the guard putting the breaks on,"
some one else explained.

I knew this was not so; our pace was
unchanged; we had thirty more miles to run
before the breaks would be put on. I saw why
the pattern on the wainscot changed. The
paint rose up in great blisters, and the smell
of burning paint became powerful. The roof
was on fire! Fearing to alarm the rest by an
outcry, I momentarily scanned the faces of the
passengers, who were loudly complaining of the
smoke. I was trying to find a face that had a
quiet spirit of help in it. I saw in the corner
a calm-faced man of thirty, caught his eye, and
pointed to the roof; for his was the only face
in which I had confidence. I was right.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, addressing the
passengers and pointing; "it is there—the
lamp; it has just caught the woodwork a trifle;
there is no danger; I am an engineer, and will
stop the train."

Looking up, we all saw a brown blistered
cloud spreading over the roof, and heard the
hissing and crackling of burning wood. The
carriage quickly filled with smoke and
became very hot; for the fire was fanned by a
fifty-mile-an-hour blast.

"Do as I do," the engineer-passenger called
to me, flinging me his railway key.

I got to one door, and opened it, as he had
done the other. Leaning out of the carriage,
the engineer-passenger then gave a long shrill
whistle, produced with two fingers against his
teeth, harsh and grating almost as a railway
whistle. I imitated him as I best could, and by
incessantly slamming the doors on both sides