GOOD-BYE TO THE DESERT.
DENVER, June 6, 1859.
MY last, I believe, was written at Station 20, ninety miles up the Republican from the point at which the Leavenworth Express Company's road strikes that river in the great American desert. Six miles farther up, the stream disappears in the deep, thirsty sands of its wide bed, and is not seen again for twenty-five miles. Even a mile or two below its point of disappearance, I learn that recent excavations in its bed to a depth of eight feet have failed to reach water. Its rëappearance below this point is marked, and seems to be caused, by the timely junction of a small tributary from the south, which appears to flow over a less thirsty bed, and pours into the devouring sands of the Republican a small but steady stream, aided by which the river begins to rëappear, first in pools, and soon in an insignificant but gradually increasing current. At the head of this "sink," the stream disappears in like manner to that of* its emergence. Here is Station 22, and here are a socalled spring, and one or two considerable pools, not visibly connected with the sinking river, but doubtless sustained by it. And here the thirsty men and teams which have been twenty-five miles without water on the Express Company's road, are met by those which have come up the longer and more southerly route by the