prismatic pools are
clasped by beautifully decorated curbs of silica, and seem to be set
in rings of gold, with mineral colors running through them like
enamel. So delicate are the touches of the magic water, as the
persistent heart-beats of old Mother Earth propel it over their
ornamental rims, that every ripple leaves its tiny mark. Hence it is
no exaggeration, but literal truth, to say that beautiful mosaic work
is being formed each time the films of boiling water are dimpled by
the passing breeze.

[Illustration: THE DEVIL'S PUNCH-BOWL.]

[Illustration: THE MAMMOTH PAINT POT.]

The great variety of wonders in our National Park was a continual
source of pleasure and surprise to me. Thus, in the midst of all the
pools and geysers in the Upper Basin is one known as the Mammoth
Paint Pot. The earth surrounding it is cracked and blistered by heat,
and from this rises a parapet five feet high, enclosing a space
resembling a circus ring. Within this area is a mixture of soft clay
and boiling water, suggesting an enormous caldron of hot mush. This
bubbling slime is almost as diversely tinted as the pools themselves.
It seemed to me that I was looking into a huge vat, where unseen
painters were engaged in mixing colors. The fact is easily explained.
The mineral ingredients of the volcanic soil produce these different
hues. In a new form, it is the same old story of the Mammoth
Terraces. Fire supplies the pigments, and hot water uses them. All
other features of the Park are solemn and impressive; but the Mammoth
Paint Pot provokes a smile. There is no grandeur here. It seems a
burlesque on volcanic power. The steam which oozes through the
plastic mass tosses its substance into curious Liliputian shapes,
which rise and break like bubbles. A mirthful demon seems to be
engaged in molding grotesque images in clay, which turn a somersault,
and then fall back to vanish in the seething depths. Now it will be a
flower, then a face, then, possibly, a manikin resembling toys for
children. Meanwhile one hears constantly a low accompaniment of
groanings, hiccoughs, and expectorations, as if the aforesaid demon
found this pudding difficult to digest.

[Illustration: THE ROAD BY GIBBON RIVER.]

[Illustration: "GROTESQUE IMAGES IN CLAY."]

[Illustration: ON THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE.]

Soon after leaving the Upper Geyser Basin, we approached a tiny lake
which has, in some respects, no equal in the world. With the
exception of some is