Cruces is overflowing with Americans. Look at that one with (as is often the case) a paroquet on his hat, a monkey on his right shoulder, and a squirrel on his left–surely not all the riches he is going to take back to “the States” –who can douht his being a true Connecticut Yankee, one of those who have occasionally manufactured “Oak pumpkin-seeds, so nateral that they actilly sprouted.” These gentry almost invariably ask us, as we pass, what State we are from.

The little American hotel at Cruces was quite full, so we passed the night in a native house. The master was very obliging, and so were his family and servants; but the poor old man had become half crazy since his wife's death, which had occurred a short time previously. He swung in his hammock in the state room of the cane lodge incessantly–not that that, however, is any proof of madness, or the white population of South America would all need strait waistcoats; but his speech and manners were incoherent and wandering, though he tried to be civil and hospitable.

The cabin consisted of two rooms, I believe; one, the front room, which served as parlour, dining-room, dormitory, and kitchen, and one which was given up to us. We all passed a pretty good night, though a disastrous adventure happened. We had a cold chicken, which with biscuits and chocolate, was to be the next morning's repast.