WE all remembered very distinctly Bul- ger’s advent in Rattlesnake Camp. It was during the rainy season—a season singu- larly inducive to settled reflective impres- sions as we sat and smoked around the stove inoMosby’s grocery. Like older and more civilized communities, we had our periodic waves of sentiment and opinion, with the exception that they were more evanescent with us, and, as we had just passed through a fortnight of dissipation and extravagance, owing to a visit from some gamblers and speculators, we were now undergoing a severe moral revulsion, partly induced by reduced finances and partly by the arrival of two families with grown-up daughters on the hill. It was raining, with occasional warm breaths, through the open window, of the southwest trades, redolent of the satu- rated spices of the woods and springing grasses, which perhaps were slightly incon- sistent with the hot stove around which we