And I did; being corralled, I had to stand it.  That fearful night!  The drunken fellows staggered in one by one, cursing and hiccoughing, until every bunk was occupied.  They muttered oaths in their sleep, and their stertorous breathings made a concert fit for Tartarus.  The sickening odors of whisky, onions, and tobacco filled the room.  I lay there and longed for daylight, which seemed as if it never would come.  I thought of the descriptions I had heard and read of hell, and just then the most vivid conception of its horror was to be shut up forever with the aggregated impurity of the universe.  By contrast I tried to think of that city of God into which, it is said, “there shall in no wise enter into it any thing that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie; but they which are written in the Lamb’s book of life.”  But thoughts of heaven did not suit the situation; it was more suggestive of the other place.  The horror of being shut up eternally in hell as the companion of lost spirits was intensified by the experience and reflections of that night when I was corralled.

Day came at last.  I rose with the first streaks of the dawn, and not having much toilet to make, I was soon out-of-doors.  Never did I breathe the pure, fresh air with such profound pleasure and gratitude.  I drew deep inspirations, and, opening my coat and vest, let the breeze that swept up the valley blow upon me unrestricted.  How bright, was the face of nature, and how sweet her, breath after the sights, sounds, and smells of the night!

I did not wait for breakfast, but had my pinto and buggy brought out, and, bidding Pete good-by, hurried on to Stockton.

“So you were corralled last night?” was the remark of a friend, quoted at the beginning of this true sketch.  “What was the name of the proprietor of the house?”

I gave him the name.

“Dave W—!” he exclaimed with fresh astonishment.  “That is the roughest place in the San Joaquin Valley.  Several men have been killed and robbed there during the last two or three years.”

I hope Pete got back safe to his wife and children in Iowa; and I hope I may never be corralled again.

The Reblooming.

It is now more than twenty years since the morning a slender youth of handsome face and modest mien came into my office on the corner of Montgomery and Clay streets, San Francisco.  He was the son of a preacher well known in Missouri and California, a man of rare good sense, caustic wit, and many eccentricities.  The young man became an attache of my newspaper-office and an inmate of my home.  He was as fair as a girl, and refined in his taste and manners.  A genial taciturnity, if the expression may be allowed, marked his bearing in the social circle.  Everybody had a kind feeling and a good word for the quiet, brightfaced youth.  In the discharge of his duties in the office he was punctual and trustworthy, showing not only