CHAPTER VIII. LITTLE ADELAIDA. COL. FREMONT'S BATALLION. SANTIAGO IN LOVESENTIMENTS OF AN OLD CALIFORNIAN.-THE PRIZE JULIA.-FANDANGO.— WINTER CLIMATE.-PATRON SAINT OF CALIFORNIA.-HABITS OF THE NA TIVES.-INSURRECTION IN THE NORTH.-DRAMA IN A CHURCH.-POSITION OF COM. STOCKTON. SATURDAY, DEC. 12. Our paper, the only one published in California, made its hebdomadal appearance again to-day. It is a little fellow, but is half filled or more with original matter. A paper is much like an infant; the smaller it is, the more anxious the attentions which it requires. My partner promised to stick by me, but has been the greater part of the time since its commencement on the bay of San Francisco. He went there to locate a city, but if rumor speaks truly, has gone off in quest of his Aphrodite before he builds her shrine. I suppose he thinks there is but little use in a cage without a bird, but there is still less in a bird without a cage. Birds, however, always pair before they rear their nests. So that my partner is after all in nature's great line, however wide it may run from the columns of the Californian. SUNDAY, DEC. 13. I miss very much the light step and laughing eye of my little friend Adelaida, the infant daughter of our consul, Mr. Larkin. She was a sweet child, and beguiled with her gladness, many a moment that had else passed less lightly. But a change came over her brightness, an eclipse whose shadow passes not. We watched its dim veil, and idly dreamed it might still pass, when its faint, inwoven light was lost in spreading darkness. She passed away like a bird from its clouded bower; and though her flight lay over dark waters, she now sings in the purple land of the blest. There no shadows fall, and death has no trophies. One eternal spring, with its sparkling founts and fragrant blossoms, reigns through the vernal year. The soft airs as they stir, wake the strings of invisible lyres; and the tender leaves whisper in music. There walk the pure; there survive the meek who wept with us here. They wait to welcome our flight to their joys and sinless repose. O that I had wings like the dove that I might fly away and be at rest! MONDAY, DEC. 14. It is now two weeks since Col. Fremont broke up his encampment in the vicinity of San Juan, and commenced his march south. His progress has been retarded by a succession of heavy rains, and it is feared that some of the rivers which he must cross, swollen by torrents from the mountains, have been rendered impassable. His horses may perhaps swim them, but his artillery and ammunition must be floated over on rafts. The construction of these, especially where the material is not at hand, will occasion long and impatient detentions. The condition of the roads, soaked as they are with rain, |