lat as my hand. Where are your savage gorges? I can't see none.
Where are your wild injuns? Do you call them loafing tramps in dirty
blankets, injuns? My belief is that they are greasers looking out for an
engagement as song and dance men. They're 'beats,' sir, 'dead beats,'
they're 'pudcocks,' and you oughter be told so."

Another passenger in the train with Mr. Sala was of a poetic mind, and he
softly sang to himself during the whole journey over the Rocky Mountains
the following effusion:--

Beautiful snow,
Beautiful snow,
B-e-e-e-eautiful snow,
How I'd like to have a revolver and go
For the beast that wrote about beautiful snow.

COPY OF A NOTICE.

The following is a verbatim copy of a notice exhibited at Welsh railway
station. It is, perhaps, only a little more incomprehensible than
Bradshaw. "List of Booking: You passengers must careful. For have them
level money for ticket and to apply at once for asking tickets when will
booking window open. No tickets to have after the departure of the
trains."

SNOWED UP ON THE PACIFIC RAILWAY.

A writer in the _Leisure Hour_ remarks:--"It is no joke when a town like
New York or London is blocked up for a few hours by snow. Both labour
and capital have then to submit to a strike from nature; but it is a more
serious matter when a man is snowed up in the middle of the Pacific
Railway. He is not then kept at home, but kept away from it; he is not
in the midst of comforts, but most unpleasantly out of their reach. He
may, too, have to endure his privations and annoyances for a week, or
even a month. . . Avalanches, in spite of snow-sheds and galleries,
spring into ravines which the trains have to cross. . . . It was,
however, with some little alarm that the writer found himself caverned
for a considerable time under one of these dark snow-sheds. The
difficulty of running through the snow impediments had so exhausted the
fuel that it was necessary to go to a wood-station in the mountains. As
it was the favourite resort of avalanches, the prudent conductor of our
train directed the pilot to back the carriages into a snow-shed, and then
be off the more quickly with engine and tender for a supply of fuel. It
was bitterly cold and in the dead of night. The snow was piled up around
the gallery, and had in many places penetrated through the crevices. The
silence was profound. The sense of utter loneliness