size of a kernel of wheat. This makes excellent feed,
and the stock is very fond of it.

At this point Mother Nature is gradually changing the old scenes for new
ones. The big brawny mountains with their little ones clustered at their
feet are just before us; while the Platte River, which for many miles
has been our constant companion, will soon be a thing of the past, as we
are close to the crossing, and once over we shall see the river no more.
This river which stretches itself in graceful curves across an entire
State, is one of peculiar construction and characteristics. At a certain
point it is terrifying, even to its best friends. In curve, color,
contour, and graceful foliage, it is a magnificent stretch of beauty;
while as a stream of utility its presence has ever been a benediction to
the country through which it passes. As a tribute to its general
excellence, I place here the beautiful lines (name of author unknown to
me), entitled:

IN THE CRADLE OF THE PLATTE.

A little stream in the canon ran,
In the canon deep and long,
When a stout old oak at its side began
To sing to it this song,

"Oh, why do you laugh and weep and sing,
And why do you hurry by,
For you're only a noisy little thing,
While a great strong oak am I;
A hundred years I shall stand alone,
And the world will look at me;
While you will bubble and babble on
And die at last in the sea."

"So proud and lofty," the stream replied,
"You're a king of the forest true;
But your roots were dead and your leaves all dried
Had I not watered you."

The oak tree rustled its leaves of green
To the little stream below;
"'Tis only a snowbank's tears, I ween,
Could talk to a monarch so.
But where are you going so fast, so fast,
And what do you think to do?
Is there anything in the world at last
For a babbling brook like you?"

"So fast, so fast,--why should I wait,"
The hurrying water said,
"When yonder by the canon gate
The farmer waits for bread?"

Out on the rainless desert land
My hurrying footsteps go;
I kiss the earth, I kiss the sand,
I make the harvest grow.

"And many a farmer, when the sky
Has turned to heated brass,
And all the plain is hot and dry,
Gives thanks to see me pass.
By many a sluice and d