considered that
"Please," "Thank you," and the like, were "all bosh" when life was so
short and busy. And still the snow fell softly, and the air and earth
were silent.

Letter X

A white world--Bad traveling--A millionaire's home--Pleasant
Park--Perry's Park--Stock-raising--A cattle king--The Arkansas
Divide--Birdie's sagacity--Luxury--Monument Park--Deference to
prejudice--A death scene--The Manitou--A loose shoe--The Ute
Pass--Bergens Park--A settler's home--Hayden's Divide--Sharp
criticism--Speaking the truth.

COLORADO SPRINGS, October 28.

It is difficult to make this anything of a letter. I have been riding
for a whole week, seeing wonders and greatly enjoying the singular
adventurousness and novelty of my tour, but ten hours or more daily
spent in the saddle in this rarefied, intoxicating air, disposes one to
sleep rather than to write in the evening, and is far from conducive to
mental brilliancy. The observing faculties are developed, and the
reflective lie dormant.

That night on which I last wrote was the coldest I have yet felt. I
pulled the rag carpet from the floor and covered myself with it, but
could not get warm. The sun rose gloriously on a shrouded earth.
Barns, road, shrubs, fences, river, lake, all lay under the glittering
snow. It was light and powdery, and sparkled like diamonds. Not a
breath of wind stirred, there was not a sound. I had to wait till a
passing horseman had broken the track, but soon after I set off into
the new, shining world. I soon lost the horseman's foot-marks, but
kept on near the road by means of the innumerable foot-prints of birds
and ground squirrels, which all went in one direction. After riding
for an hour I was obliged to get off and walk for another, for the snow
balled in Birdie's feet to such an extent that she could hardly keep up
even without my weight on her, and my pick was not strong enough to
remove it. Turning off the road to ask for a chisel, I came upon the
cabin of the people whose muff I had picked up a few days before, and
they received me very warmly, gave me a tumbler of cream, and made some
strong coffee. They were "old Country folk," and I stayed too long
with them. After leaving them I rode twelve miles, but it was "bad
traveling," from the balling of the snow and the difficulty of finding
the track. There was a fearful loneliness about it. The track was
untrodden, and I saw neither man nor beast. The sky became densel