Canyon, September.

The absence of a date shows my predicament. They have no newspaper; I have no almanack; the father is away for the day, and none of the others can help me, and they look contemptuously upon my desire for information on the subject. The monotony will come to an end to-morrow, for Chalmers offers to be my guide over the mountains to Estes Park, and has persuaded his wife “for once to go for a frolic;” and with much reluctance, many growls at the waste of time, and many apprehensions of danger and loss, she has consented to accompany him. My life has grown less dull from theirs having become more interesting to me, and as I have “ made myself agreeable, ” we are on fairly friendly terms. My first move in the direction of fraternising was, however, snubbed. A few days ago, having finished my own work, I offered to wash up the plates, but Mrs. C, with a look which conveyed more than words, a curl of her nose, and a sneer in her twang, said, “ Guess you'll make more work nor you'll do. Those hands of yours ” (very brown and coarse they were) “ ain't no good; never done nothing, I guess.” Then to her awkward daughter: “ This woman says she'll wash up! Ha! ha! look at her arms and hands!” This was the nearest approach to a laugh I have heard, and have never seen even a tendency towards a smile. Since then I have risen in their estimation by improvising a lamp—Hawaiian fashion —by putting a wisp of rag into a tin of fat.