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Oh, the tedious, tiresome monotony of these vast extended prairies: To look out and away, over these seemingly endless levels, as far as the eye can reach, and see only grass, grass everywhere, with beautiful prairie flowers, of course, but the flowers cannot be seen in the distance. No earthly consideration would induce me to make a home on any of these immense prairie levels. How my eyes long for a sight of beautiful trees, and running streams of water; how delightful to stroll in the woods once more.

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Thursday, May 11.

The wish expressed last evening is realized in a manner. We are camping in a strip of timber along the banks of a creek—or branch, rather. But then it is such a slow-going stream, not at all limpid, clear, or sparkling as a brook ought to be. It can hardly be called a running stream, for it goes too slowly. I think creeping or crawling would be more appropriate. We came through Afton to-day.

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Friday, May 12.

Brother Hillhouse’s birthday. He is twenty years old. We made a birthday cake for him last night. We divided it into twenty pieces at lunch to-day, and there was just enough to go around and leave two pieces for himself. The girls say we must have some kind of a jollification to-night. I hope they will leave me out, for I want to write about the “Icarian Community.” We came through Queen City this morning, and this afternoon came to a town of French people, called “The Icarian Community.”