glory of flight. He is the prototype and the
realization of the Fairy of the Wood we loved so much as children, and
so hated to be robbed of by grown-ups, who should have known better.

I would give a good deal to have a Bat colony where I could see it
daily, and would go a long way to meet some new kind of Bat.

[Illustration]

I never took much interest in caverns, or geysers, or in any of the
abominable cavities of the earth that nature so plainly meant to keep
hidden from our eyes. I shall not forget the unpleasant sensations I had
when first, in 1897, I visited the Yellowstone Wonderland and stood
gazing at that abominable Mud Geyser, which is even worse to-day. The
entry in my journal of the time runs thus:

"The Mud Geyser is unlike anything that can be seen elsewhere. One hears
about the bowels of the earth; this surely is the end of one of them.
They talk of the mouth of hell; this is the mouth with a severe fit of
vomiting. The filthy muck is spewed from an unseen gullet at one side
into a huge upright mouth with sounds of oozing, retching and belching.
Then as quickly reswallowed with noises expressive of loathing on its
own part, while noxious steam spreads disgusting, unpleasant odours all
around. The whole process is quickly repeated, and goes on and on, and
has gone on for ages, and will go. And yet one feels that this is merely
the steam vent outside of the huge factory where all the actual work is
being done. One does not really see the thing at all, but only stands
outside the building where it is going on. One never wishes to see it a
second time. All are disgusted by it, but all are fascinated."

* * * * *

No, I like them not. I have a natural antipathy to the internal
arrangements of Mother Earth. I might almost say a delicacy about gazing
on such exposure. Anyhow, we shall all get underground soon enough; and
I usually drop off when our party prepares to explore dark, horrible,
smelly underground places that have no possible claim (I hold) for the
normal being of healthy instincts.

But near the Mammoth Hot Springs is a hellhole that did attract me. It
is nothing else than the stuffy, blind alley known as the Devil's
Kitchen. There is no cooking going on at present, probably because it is
not heated up enough, but there is a peculiarly hot, close feeling
suggestive of the Monkey house in an old-time zoo. I went down this, not
that I was interested in the Sata