ones of our
voices, and an occasional crackle and splutter as a pine knot blazed
up, there was no sound on the mountain side. The beloved stars of my
far-off home were overhead, the Plough and Pole Star, with their steady
light; the glittering Pleiades, looking larger than I ever saw them,
and "Orion's studded belt" shining gloriously. Once only some wild
animals prowled near the camp, when "Ring," with one bound, disappeared
from my side; and the horses, which were picketed by the stream, broke
their lariats, stampeded, and came rushing wildly towards the fire, and
it was fully half an hour before they were caught and quiet was
restored. "Jim," or Mr. Nugent, as I always scrupulously called him,
told stories of his early youth, and of a great sorrow which had led
him to embark on a lawless and desperate life. His voice trembled, and
tears rolled down his cheek. Was it semi-conscious acting, I wondered,
or was his dark soul really stirred to its depths by the silence, the
beauty, and the memories of youth?

We reached Estes Park at noon of the following day. A more successful
ascent of the Peak was never made, and I would not now exchange my
memories of its perfect beauty and extraordinary sublimity for any
other experience of mountaineering in any part of the world. Yesterday
snow fell on the summit, and it will be inaccessible for eight months
to come.

I. L. B.

Letter VIII

Estes Park--Big game--"Parks" in Colorado--Magnificent scenery--Flowers
and pines--An awful road--Our log cabin--Griffith Evans--A miniature
world--Our topics--A night alarm--A skunk--Morning glories--Daily
routine--The panic--"Wait for the wagon"--A musical evening.

ESTES PARK, COLORADO TERRITORY, October 2.

How time has slipped by I do not know. This is a glorious region, and
the air and life are intoxicating. I live mainly out of doors and on
horseback, wear my half-threadbare Hawaiian dress, sleep sometimes
under the stars on a bed of pine boughs, ride on a Mexican saddle, and
hear once more the low music of my Mexican spurs. "There's a stranger!
Heave arf a brick at him!" is said by many travelers to express the
feeling of the new settlers in these Territories. This is not my
experience in my cheery mountain home. How the rafters ring as I write
with songs and mirth, while the pitch-pine logs blaze and crackle in
the chimney, and the fine snow dust drives in through the chinks