There's no use talkin' fellers,

It's the only place that's blest,
The only place that's soothing,

When a feller wants a rest.

You kin soak your soul with sportin'
For a week or month or two,
When the aspens turn to yaller
And the bucks is in the blue.
Jes' drop that desk and day-book,
They're turnin of ye gray;

They're roundin' of your shoulders, too,

I don't kyar what you say.
Git out among the mountains,
It's health and morals too,

When the aspens turn to yaller

And the bucks is in the blue.

In the Platte river we often get trout weighing from two to seven pounds. The mountain trout, speckled beauties, run smaller.

Last week, late in the day, I went over to a neighboring camp, and returned late (about nine o'clock). A large buck deer followed me almost Of course, I had left my

into my camp.

gun at home and traveled in light marching order, for a few pounds count quite a lot in climbing these mountains. Therefore we lost a good haunch of venison. This week George and I went down to town with a couple of burros to pack up supplies. A few miles out of our camp our dog came rushing back to us, pursued by a pack of coyotes; but we drove them back, and further along encountered several more sneaking on the outside of a bunch of cattle. We

do not bother with them this time of the year; their pelts or hides are no good only in the winter months.

A man with a good Winchester and ammunition has no excuse for going hungry in this part of the country. We have wild fruits close by, wild raspberries, currants, Oregon grapes, and strawberries, although the altitude is about nine thousand feet. George preserves some of these fruits for winter use.

My experience through the sage-brush State of Nevada has given me more regard and love for Wyoming. Here we have fine cold mountain water throughout the year, good forage for the animals, plenty of game,

and fine ranches close by where we can get fresh vegetables and meats. Nevada is well supplied with sandy deserts and barren wastes, waterless and short on fuel. For transportation we use the faithful burros. They rustle for their meals and do not need much water.

Last summer I spent in Nevada, roaming over vast deserts, climbing rocky mountains, but enjoying the experience and ready to try it again. Rude and rough, some of it, but man will brave anything for that bright glittering gold; and then a lover of Nature takes pleasure and revels in the free, delightful, gipsy-like existence. There is a continual panorama up and down rough and rocky hills.

Perched on the undulating hilltops are many mines. Looming far above the summits, a fringe of fir, or spruce trees, making a pretty background. Winding up and around are steep roads, some of them perilous and dangerous. Near the foothills nestles the humble cabin or shack, in a grove of native quaken aspen. Overhead the spotless blue sky seems to join the hills at their summits, and at night the rising moon slowly and cautiously peers over the high places as if to make sure the "coast is clear," then seemingly bounds into view, as if playing peek-aboo. If there is snow on the ground and light clouds in the sky, black shadows are thrown on the dazzling surface, which glistens like countless precious flashing gems, and dim ghostly lights dance on the hill and mingle with the ruddy night lights at the mine. When the clouds part and disclose sparkling, brilliant stars, the wild natural picture is complete.

And these prospecting trips with a good outfit and plenty of food, in a good country, and there are many pleasant places, are just summer outings.

As the day draws to a close we pick a good place for a camp, where there are water and forage, gather fuel, start a rousing camp-fire, hover around the welcome warmth and cheerful blaze after supper, for the evenings are cool in the high altitudes.

A

There seems a beauty even in the solitude and stillness of the night among the mountains, when the beautiful moon casts a golden shimmering track o'er sparkling streams, flower-decked park, and stately trees. bed or couch of sweetly scented spruce gives one a restful repose, and the early morning air is warmed and softened by the rays of the rising sun. After breakfast off we go, with horses packed, along the trails, halting at times to inspect and examine the country for favorable signs. Fording streams, we perhaps pass through and ruthlessly tramp underfoot fragrant wild flowers. Ascending the hill, we view from the summit a natural amphitheatre, nearly surrounded by tall and straight trees, a sloping wide valley, the lowlands being flower-tressed with dainty shade of shrub and blossom. Here the birds build their nests.

A small river courses through the valley, winding its way for miles until it disappears among the foothills. The river flows as gently sweet as Afton.

"And around them the soft stream did glide and dance

With a motion of sweet sound and radiance."

In this beautiful valley we go into camp. The beautiful colors in sky, water, and vale are as if thrown in superb masses by the giant brush of a supreme master whose secret no mortal can hope to surpass. The clouds are a perpetual study; for whether soft or brilliant, light or dark, heavy or vapory, each seems the most enchanting of its kind. Sometimes they fall in soft, fleecy folds around the neck of a lofty mountain, whose top is covered with snow, which, touched into rose color by the rising or setting sun, add the last imaginable charm of tint.

We partake of supper as the sky puts on its gorgeous evening drapery of cloud, and as we enjoy the fumes of the fragrant weed, and look out into the gloom surrounding the grim and rugged hills, we wonder if the spirits of the Red Men still haunt this Indian Cullamah (beautiful vale). Lying in our tent, we watch the playful shadows of the flickering campfire dancing to the low moan of the evening breeze among the trees, until we wander into dreamland and awake in the early morn of a new day to look from our camp on the magical combination of sun, sky, rocky hills, and pretty trees, with their reflections lying softly in the mountain mirror. Magnificent clouds go scurrying along, giving an element of life to the scene; but breakfast claims our attention, and we are eager to roam and explore.

There's a song in the canyon below me,

And a song in the pines overhead,
As the sun creeps down from the snow line
And startles the deer from his bed.
With mountains of green all around me,
And mountains of white up above,

And mountains of blue in the distance,

I follow the trail that I love.

And thus the days pass, not all honey and cream; but the few disagreeable periods, trials, or mishaps add spice to the flavor, and we learn to appreciate the good things of the trip, and there are many of them.

You have doubtless heard of some of my experiences during my stay in Nevada, just a few, for it would take much paper, space, or time to relate a small sample. I roamed through, across, up and down the State from Oregon to California eight months. Adventures were varied at times, not lacking in life and spirit. Sometimes prospecting or recuperating at some lone ranch from the noise and bustle of the city.