The frosted and ever-falling silver of the great fall itself, a giant mass of festooned spray, knit into one Titanic column (397 feet high), the clouds and clouds of hoar mist that float veil behind quivering veil, and fill the rounded chasm into which it is hurled, form, without reference to the surroundings, a picture of most impressive loveliness. Where the great stream abruptly drops, trembles a bar of emerald from bank to bank. For a space, as if stunned, the current clings together, and is still; then, shuddering, it awakes and plunges on, mightily, irresistibly, grandly, an ever-changing avalanche of sifted snow, beaded with flashing diamond-dust and scattered pearls, guarded by sheaves of slim-shafted water lances to its bed of foam, in a dim, lichen-gilded cradle.

No more glorious symbol of power could be conceived. There is about it that which rivets the attention. Willing or not, you must pause and watch it. And, arch-dissenter though you may be from the worship of Nature, this scene will, nevertheless, compel your admiration.

Go and sit by those falls at evening, and watch the rosy glow of sunset settle with softening influence upon the upper cliffs, whilst below all is already steeped in mystery. Listen to the ceaseless roar of waters, till, to the half-stunned ear, it grows dull and dreamily monotonous, as if far away. Or stroll along the verge of the cañon, where the air is redolent with the exhalations of the pine-trees, and hearken to their vespers, which, as if chanted by errant spirit-choirs, steal slowly up from unknown forest cloisters, loiter a moment over the abyss to join in the river's song, and, rustling, pass away, as another choir draws nigh. And smile not if such things have no effect upon you, for you have missed truer pleasures than may be found in the imitations of art, or the monotonous music of civilisation.

Leaving—with how much regret!—the Grand Cañon, we passed on by the curious and beautiful Tower Falls, and not less lovely cascades of the Gardner River, to the Mammoth Hot Springs. They lie upon the flanks of the White Mountain, and have gradually added to it a distinct spur, which, in the distance, shines amidst the neighbouring pine woods like a breadth of white satin in a mantle of pile velvet. These springs are many hundreds in number. With the calcite their waters contain in solution, they have built for themselves cup-shaped fonts, that stand in rows and terraces in regular formation, and present the appearance of having been hewn and polished in the finest marble. In all directions the glistening white and ivory is stained by combinations of brilliant and delicate tints, such as only the laboratory of Nature can produce. Each pool is a mirror. In its pure depths the fleecy clouds reflected sail slowly by, the dainty biscuit-work of the fountain's edges is faithfully reproduced, and the beholder himself, as he gazes therein, is photographed with a clearness that is at first sight startling.

A few days we lingered here, and then set forth again.

We were trekking quietly along one afternoon, when a riderless cavalry horse cantered towards us. With some difficulty it was caught, and a picket-rope, a coat, a pair of boots, and some saddle-bags were found attached to the saddle. No owner appearing, Dick took charge of the truant. He also took charge of the saddle-bags, which contained a cake of tobacco and a love-letter, or, as he styled them—"a chunk of 'baccer, and some durned gush from a gal who's got mashed on the owner." He learnt the letter by heart, and delighted in making apposite quotations from it. Two mornings later, however, a claimant appeared in the person of a smart little Dutch trooper belonging to the cavalry escort of a surveying party. It seemed that, after breaking loose, the horse had travelled back eighty miles on his tracks. Our visitor, a cheery little fellow, stayed to breakfast with us.

"I can only give you back half that chunk," said Dick reflectively, when he was leaving. "I'm a bit short of 'baccer myself."

"All roight, partner, I got plenty. Py golly, ven I start out anyvers, I alvays go repairet" (prepared?).

"Is that so? Wal, your head's level. By the way" (expectorating meditatively), "there was a letter...."

The Dutchman's animation was arrested for a moment, then, looking quizzically at his interlocutor, he said: "You reet dat letter?"

"You bet yer! I wanted to see who that tearing war-horse belonged to. What shall I tell your gal when we get down Ogden?"

Again the Dutchman looked serious.

"You know dat gal?"

"I should smile," replied Dick, with hopeless melancholy.

"Vell—vell—vell: you tell dat gal I bin on vilt goose chase after mine dam olt hoss, vat run vays mit her letter. And py golly, partner, joos take care and don' get on inside track of dat gal. Eh? Vat? You nee'n't tell her vat else. I finish der tale ven I kom." And again profusely thanking us, the errant lover trotted away with his steed in tow.

One evening we camped below a likely-looking ridge for hunting, and, leaving the waggon next morning at "sun-up," set out in search of game, intending to bivouac a night in the upper woods. Elk had already begun to descend from the summits of the loftier ranges, whither, owing to the persecution of flies, they are forced during summer to retreat. It was necessary, therefore, to advance with caution even on the foot-hills.

We had worked our way up through a belt of fallen timber into a forest of magnificent pines interspersed with grassy glades and willow bottoms, and were slowly proceeding, when a low whistle from Dick attracted my attention. He had halted to the left of me, and with furious gesticulations was indicating something in front of him. As I turned, an elk sprang up. Uncertain whence danger threatened him, for a second he paused, but a bullet from my Express rifle settled his deliberations. When my broncho, scared by the report, had concluded his part in the performance, I was able to inquire the effect of the shot.

"Is he down, Dick?"

"You bet yer. He's a daisy! You've shot him in the couplings, and broke his back. I guess I'll finish him," and Dick put a bullet through its head.

A few yards from where we had first seen him lay the elk in the bracken, a magnificent fellow, with a fine head, only unfortunately two of his points were broken.

"How many poets gild the lapse of years!" May we not paraphrase it, and write for "poets" pictures?—for scenes such as these are like frescoes in the galleries of memory. The hollow that we bivouacked in. The sleepy willow bottom where our bronchos were picketed. The afternoon hunt afoot, marked by glimpses of an elk and four white-tailed deer. The evening vigil on an elk-trail in the dim forest twilight, when the winds slumbered, the earth was dumb, and even a falling leaf created quite a stir. The calumet and chat, with our mocassined feet to the camp fire, the light from which playing upon the giant trunks around, made them seem like pillars in some mysterious hall; the cheerful glow anear, the sombre gloom beyond. Is it not all photographed and laid aside to beguile us of idle hours hereafter? He who has no ambition in the future should create a pleasant past.

At daybreak we climbed the highest peak in the ridge. Soft distances, with hills of violet and lapis-lazuli, stretched to the far-off horizon, where hung low-lying clouds. Nearer, half-hidden beneath coverlets of mist, still valleys slept, and broke, together with a tortuous, silver-gleaming trout stream, the vast expanse of sombre pine forest and bronze prairie. Miles and miles away to the south, keen-edged and