Today we moved on till we came to a little stream about four miles from
our last night's stopping-place. One mile from where we stopped, we
crossed a little stream called Mountain Blue. We have not found a more
beautiful place than where we stopped today--plenty of wood, water and
grass. Day fine; health good. There is a novel feature in this region in
the existence of a red sand which gives to the prospect a very
picturesque character. I suppose it was caused by volcanic fires, which
burned perhaps centuries ago. A soft quality of marble also abounds
here, and many of our party have smoothed pieces of it and written or
carved their names, dates, and other laconic bits of news upon them for
their friends behind them. I cut a level surface upon a piece and wrote
thus: "C. W. Smith, Centreville, Indiana. 'On the night's Plutonian
shore.' June 2, 1850." The country over which we are passing is becoming
very rocky and broken, and I am surprised that we can pass over it with
so little difficulty. Sometimes we pass along an extensive range of
hills, sometimes through a deep gorge or dry-bed of a stream, and then
again winding along a serpentine track, thus ever changing from scene to
scene, deriving new interest from them all and learning each day
something more of the many wonders of nature. Distance, four miles.