Resuming, through air refrigerated by rain, our now weary way, we reached at 6 AM a favorite camping ground, the "Big Nemehaw" Creek, which, like its lesser neighbor, flows after rain into the Missouri River, via Turkey Creek, the Big Blue, and the Kansas. It is a fine bottom of rich black soil, whose green woods at that early hour were wet with heavy dew, and scattered over the surface lay pebbles and blocks of quartz, and porphyritic granites. "Richland," a town mentioned in guide books, having disappeared, we drove for breakfast to Seneca, a city consisting of a few shanties, mostly, garnished with tall square lumber fronts, ineffectually, especially when the houses stand one by one, masking the diminutiveness of the buildings behind them. The land, probably in prospect of a Pacific Railroad, fetched the exaggerated price of $20 an acre, and already a lawyer has "hung out his shingle" there.
Refreshed by breakfast and the intoxicating air, brisk as a bottle of veuve Clicquot, -- it is this that gives one the "prairie fever," -- we bade glad adieu to Seneca, and prepared for another long stretch of twenty four hours.
Passing through Ash Point at 9:30 AM, and halting for water at Uncle John's Grocery, where hang-dog Indians squatting, standing, and stalking about, showed that the forbidden luxury -- essence of corn, was, despite regulations, not unprocurable there, we spanned the prairie to Guittard's Station.