Walla Walla is so named from its abundant supply of water. Many little streams run over the surface and many more under ground. This valley is noted for the richness of its soil, which is decomposed lava, and its wonderful climate. This delightful climate is shorn of its harshness by the magical breath of the Chinook wind.
The principal crop here is wheat. A Walla Walla ranchman never thinks of planting anything else. The soil is so easy of cultivation that all he needs to do is to plow the ground, sow the wheat and go fishing until it is ready to harvest. Wheat brings him wealth and prosperity.
Every year one-half of a ranch is allowed to lie fallow, but an Illinois farmer would rotate crops instead. The fallow fields, however, are kept perfectly clean and free from weeds.
During the rainy season the soil, which is rich in potash and phosphoric acid, stores up moisture sufficient to mature the wheat. Only three pecks of wheat are sown to the acre, as the grain stools very much.
The average farm contains six hundred acres, but there are many ranches of from a thousand to fifteen hundred acres.
For cutting the grain the old-fashioned header is used, also the ordinary reaper and binder, but the combined harvester and thresher is the king of reapers. It is drawn by from twenty-five to thirty mules, cuts the grain, threshes it, sacks it, and dumps it on the ground ready for shipment.
Wheat averages from twenty to thirty bushels to the acre. Some years the average is much higher. In 1898 wheat went sixty bushels to the acre.
The price of land runs from thirty dollars to sixty dollars per acre. Comfortable homes and green orchards dot the landscape. The orchards, however, must be irrigated. The Blue mountains supply plenty of water for this purpose.
At the experiment stations established[226] throughout the semi-arid regions of the west, investigation of the excessive alkali in the soil is being carried on.
In many regions of California and Utah large tracts of irrigated land are practically non-productive because of the presence of an excess of alkali. Investigation has proven that this is due to excessive irrigation. When water is applied to the soil it brings to the surface when it rises, the salts.
In seeking a remedy for this evil the experiment stations have demonstrated that in most instances crops do not require nearly so much water as is usually applied to them. Working along practical lines in the solution of this, to the West, great problem, the stations hope eventually to show just what quantity of water a given crop in a given locality requires.
The establishment of this truth will save much land now under ditch and extend the area of irrigation by demonstrating that more land can be supplied with water from the available supply.
In Montana, Idaho, Washington and the semi-arid districts of other states experiments are being carried on in the line of forage plants.[227] In these states success has been quite satisfactory with the cow pea, which is usually planted with oats. Red clover flourishes as well here as in the East.
Success in farming depends upon a thorough knowledge of soil, climate and rainfall. The farmers are coming to depend upon the experiment stations for much of this knowledge.
Agriculture was early practiced in this valley, the Walla Walla region proper being part of the old Oregon country. The Hudson Bay Company established posts at the junction of the Walla Walla and Columbia rivers, at Fort Vancouver on the Columbia river and at Fort Colville in the Colville valley, north of the present city of Spokane. With these people agriculture and the fur trade went hand in hand. In 1828 seven hundred bushels of wheat were raised at Fort Vancouver and in 1829 seventy acres were under cultivation at Fort Colville.
Just as a Bede Bible and a “quart of seed wheat” saved the British Isles to Christianity; so “the Book” and another “quart of seed wheat” carried in by the Reverend Spalding, saved Oregon to the United States, notwithstanding the Russian Bear, the British Lion and the bull of Alexander the VI. in which he delivered over all North America to Spain.
“Good old times those were when kings thrust their hands into the New World, as children do theirs into a grab bag at a fair, and drew out a river four thousand miles long, or an ocean, or a tract of wild land ten or fifteen times the size of England.”
The king of Spain sold Louisiana to France for money to buy his daughter a wedding present and for one brief while France had hopes of planting her lilies in the Walla Walla Valley. France, however, had met her Waterloo in America, on the Plains of Abraham.
Then came England denying the validity of the old Franco-Spanish title under which we claimed the Oregon country, but the same policy that lost to Great Britain her thirteen colonies, lost to her this princely domain.
American and English settlements contrasted strangely. The one emigrant came with his traps and snares, the other with his plow and quart of seed wheat. The one came for the fortune which he might carry out of the country, the other to make a home for himself and his children. So, the English trapper with his snares and the Indian with his pogamoggan retreated before the advance of American civilization.
In 1836 Mrs. Whitman, wife of Dr. Whitman, wrote from Fort Vancouver that the Hudson Bay Co. had that year four thousand bushels of wheat, four thousand bushels of peas and fifteen hundred bushels of oats and barley, besides many root vegetables, also poultry, cattle, hogs and sheep.
The metropolis of the valley is Walla Walla. It is a well-built town having a population of several thousand. Many of the stores and business blocks are of brick. Its streets are wide. In the suburbs is a military post, also a college[230] established by the Congregational church in honor of Dr. Marcus Whitman, the well known missionary who was massacred at his mission near Walla Walla in 1847. So died the brave, patriotic Whitman.
In 1813 England, basing her claims on Drake’s discoveries, captured Astoria and for years kept her hands on the Oregon country, to be thwarted at last by one brave American.
The story of Marcus Whitman’s life should be enshrined in the heart of every school-boy in America.
From the busy thriving city of Spokane, the center of the agriculture empire of the Pacific Coast, to Missoula along the headwaters of the Columbia is a most interesting journey. High above, the grim Cascades rear their shaggy heads. Magnificent pines lift their crested heads skyward. The Columbia, “rock-ribbed and mighty,” sweeps on, now placidly, now whirling and eddying, tossing its waters up in foamy spray, now breaking into white cascades, beautiful as Schauffhausen on the noble Rhine. The rugged rocks along the shore are hidden by festoons of grape and wild honeysuckle vines, while the bright salmon berry adds a touch of color.
Here is a bit of western fiction, a study in evolution that would interest a Haeckel. These berries falling into the water float away into brown pools and shady nooks and there change into the red fish known as salmon.
The gentleman who told me this wonderful tale of magic assured me that it was true, and that the Fish Commission had made a report of it. Like the tale of the banshee, however, he had never seen it but he knew people who had.
Scientific errors should be corrected, so I will give you the facts about the salmon trout. It was that mischievous god Loke, who to escape the vengeance of Thor hid himself in a cave, but when he heard the thundering voice of that noble god,
“He changed himself into a salmon trout
And leaped in a fright in the Glommen.”
Slippery as a salmon is a common adage in Norseland.
The most beautiful spot in this region is Lake Pend d’Oreille. The scenery of this lovely lake rivals that of Lake George. Its blue waters bathe the brown feet of rugged mountains.
It is early morning on Lake Pend d’Oreille;[232] the mountain breeze, the gentle swish of the water as it laps the shore, the white, graceful-moving sail-boat all entice you for a day’s fishing. Tired of this sport you sail over and rest under the wonderful Blue Slide. The mountain bordering on the lake at this point has crumbled away, sending down its bowlders into the lake. From the boat you look up a smooth incline plane two thousand feet, above which rises the precipice itself another thousand feet. The slide is covered with a pale blue clay, while the precipice itself is a mixture of granite and clay tinged with iron. Large pines grow on the very edge of the precipice.
The junction of Clear Water and the Snake rivers in Idaho is a place of historic interest. We are now in the country traversed by Lewis and Clarke.
The history of the great Northwest is wonderfully fascinating. The history of no part of this great territory is more tragic than that of Montana. Her savage tribes, her cosmopolitan population called into existence by her fur trade and mining industry, all combined to produce in Montana a peculiar phase of civilization, but she has beaten dirks and bowie knives[233] into plowshares and now follows the gentle arts of peace. A magnificent mountain range, lovely valley, beautiful river and a delicate, graceful flower—Bitter Root. Bitter Root is the state flower of Montana and lends its name to the river, mountains and valley of its native heath, growing most luxuriantly in Bitter Root valley.
This valley is one of the most beautiful as well as the most productive in the state. Lying at the eastern foot of the Bitter Root Mountains it is shielded from the cold, west winds. The climate is fine while the soil in most places is rich and deep. Timothy and clover grow luxuriantly. Baled hay brings from seven to ten dollars per ton at the railroad station. Dairy farming and poultry raising are profitable industries. Butter sells at forty cents per pound in the winter and twenty cents in the summer. Eggs bring the same price. Butte, Helena and other mining centers supply the market for Bitter Root Valley.
Bitter Root orchards are immune from disease. The leas ophis has appeared but as yet has done no injury. Bitter Root Mountains were the stronghold of the Nez Perce Indians.
Hell Gate cañon is one of the most picturesque[234] in the Rocky Mountains. It is wild and beautiful. Its fir-clad slopes rise thousands of feet high. A lion steals stealthily along, noiselessly as Fear herself, owl answers owl from the tall trees, and soft shadows lend enchantment to the light of the pale moon that hurries you along like Porphyro’s poor guide on the eve of St. Agnes, with agues in your brain.
Deer Lodge lies in a beautiful valley, sun-browned now, with just a hint of autumn’s grays and purples.
John Bozeman was a noted frontiersman in the early days of Montana. His name is perpetuated by Bozeman’s pass, Bozeman’s creek and Bozeman city, all in Gallatan valley. This valley, once the bloody battle-ground of the Blackfeet, the Bannacks, the Crows and the Nez Perce Indians is now one of the widest known and best cultivated in the state.
Helena, the capital of Montana, is a thriving, prosperous city. Through the Gate of the Mountains we enter a little valley called Paradise. Like a beautiful dream this lovely valley lies in the cold bosom of the rugged mountains; which, looming high above, shield it from the wintry blast.
Mighty cañons, rock-ribbed, gloomy and dark, have been gouged out of the very hearts of the cold, gray mountains that pierce the blue of heaven. But this sun-lit vale, too fair for the abode of man, lies just as nature left it, blue canopied, the cool green grass and murmuring Yellow Stone.
The Devil in a merry mood one day, coasted down the mountain at Cinnebar, scorching blood red a wide, smooth slide that would delight the daring heart of a tobogganist.
The artist may paint you a bit of sky, a little water, a few trees, and mayhap a bluebird or a merry brown thrush, but can he paint the gently moving restless air or the storm that sweeps down the mountainside, the murmur, the ripple, the roar of the river, the whir of the bluebird’s wing as it rises to flight, or the thrush’s song?
It is beyond the power of brush or pen to paint the wilderness, the beauty, the weirdness, the awful grandeur of this land of Malebolge, sulphurous pits and boiling lakes, a fit dwelling place for Minos, infernal judge; the elusive beauty of a playing geyser, the iridescent sparkle of the water as it leaps the rocky precipice and pours down the mountain’s great throat, or the diabolical scene of the famous Mud Geyser where,—
“Bellowing there groaned
A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn
By warring wings. The stormy blast of hell
With restless fury drives the spirits on,
Whirled round and dashed amain with sore annoy.
When arriving before the ruinous sweep,
There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans.”
With horrible groanings the thick sulphurous mass is driven against the sides of the deep crater.
“Wherefore delay in such a mournful place?
We came within the fosses deep, that moat
This region comfortless, the walls appeared
As they were framed in iron, we had made
Wide circuit ere we reached the place where loud
The mariner (guide) vehement cried
‘Go forth, the entrance is here.’”
—Dante.
We had circled the Mammoth Hot Springs, down a way by a ladder we entered the Devil’s kitchen. This is a defunct geyser. The way was dark and the air hot as the heat penetrated the walls from the Hot Springs. The water of these springs is rich in minerals, copper, iron and sulphur. As the water boils over and evaporates it leaves deposits on the rims fretting them with a delicate frost work of varied and beautiful hues. Cream and salmon deepening into rich shades of red, brown, green and yellow.
The Cleopatra Spring is one of the most beautiful. Located on a mound forty feet high[238] and covering an area of three-quarters of an acre, the deep blue water, the sparkling white basin with its pale yellow frost-fretted rim rivals the touch of the artist’s brush.
Just below the springs the broad level tract in front of the United States barracks covers a treacherous burnt-out area. We were standing on a veranda of the hotel observing the maneuvers when one of the cavalry horses broke through the thin crust. His rider recovered him and they were off before the treacherous ground gave way. A rope was brought and the soldiers lowered one of their comrades, who dropped thirty-five feet before he struck a landing place. Investigation showed the entire platte to be dangerously honeycombed.
Through the Golden Gate we enter Kingman’s Pass. The stupendous walls of golden yellow rock rise sheer hundreds of feet high on either side.
Just as we turned a point in the road such “Ohs” and “Ahs” as the Rustic Falls of the Gardener River burst on our sight. The river falls sixty feet into a series of shallow basins of moss covered rock. To the sides of the basin cling wavering ferns and delicate spray-kissed flowers.
The most wonderful mountain in the world stands on the shore of Beaver Lake. A glass mountain of pure jet black glass, rising skyward in basalt like columns from one hundred to two hundred and fifty feet. The black glass streaked here and there with red and yellow glistens in the sunshine as peak and pinnacle catch, imprison and reflect the sun’s rays.
Large blocks have become detached from time to time forming a glass slide into the lake. Obsidian is a species of lava. Pliny says this glass was first found in Ethiopia, but the only glass mountain in the world stands on the shore of Beaver Lake. The Indians used this glass for arrow heads and in making sharp-edged tools.
The swampy, lily-padded margin of Beaver Lake is haunted by wild geese. This lake is the beaver’s own. These industrious little animals constructed it by damming up Green Creek for a distance of two miles. Some thirty dams sweep in graceful curves from side to side each having a fall from two to six feet.
The geyser basins are places of unusual interest and beauty. No scene in the park is lovelier than these areas of bubbling pools, boiling lakes and steaming geysers, at sunrise, when the columns of white steam, tinged to a roseate hue by the rising sun, ascending against the background of dark green pines. Presently,—
“There came o’er the perturbed waves
Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made
Either shore tremble, as if a wind
Impetuous, from conflicting vapors sprung,
That ’gainst some forest driving with all his might,
Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurls
Afar; then, onward passing proudly sweeps
His whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.”
—Dante.
Thus warned we moved away just as Old Faithful shot his boiling waters skyward.
“Ask thou no more
Now ’gin rueful wailings to be heard.
The gloomy region shook so terribly
That yet with clammy dews chill my brow.
The sad earth gave a blast.”
—Dante.
And steam and water shot up a column two hundred feet high. The Giant Geyser was playing.
“We the circle crossed
To the next steep, arriving at a well
That boiling pours itself down a foss
Sluiced from its source.”
—Dante.
This well is the formidable Excelsior Geyser which pours its waters into the Fire Hole River.
The Paint Pots are springs which boil incessantly their pasty clay, which boiling over hardens, building up a rim around the pot. In one group of seventeen pots are as many different colors.
The center pot is a pearl gray, while grouped about it are smaller pots of various shades of pink, gray, chocolate, yellow, red, lavender, emerald and sapphire blues and white, mortar thousands of years old that would make the heart of a plasterer glad. Here is a plaster which when hardened, whether by sun or fire, never cracks.
Of a somewhat different character are the chocolate jugs on the banks of the Fire Hole River. These springs are rich in iron. The sediment hardens as the water pours out, building up gradually a brown jug-like cone.
The Blue Mud Pot is quite as interesting as the Paint Pots. Its circular basin is twenty feet in diameter. The mud is about the consistency of thick plaster. This mud pot presents a beautiful picture as the puffs of mud burst with a thud-like noise giving off perfect little rings which recede to the sides of the crater. This spring is strongly impregnated with alum. In this vicinity is a spring of pure alum water and several of sulphate of copper.
These springs are clear and deep, having beautiful basins, the rims of which are lined with incrustations of brilliant colors.
In a gloomy wood we came to the Devil’s frying pan, a shallow, hot, boiling spring which sputters, sizzles and hisses equal to any old-time, three legged skillet, sending out sulphurous odors that would delight the nostrils of Lucifer himself.
Hell’s half acre is quite as interesting as its name. Here in times gone by Excelsior Geyser shook the earth.
One lovely morning we mounted to our seats in the stage coach, the driver cracked his whip over the heads of the leaders, six creamy white horses pricked up their ears, sprang forward at a gallop and we were off to the Continental Divide.
We had just crossed a glade where deer were grazing when a hail storm, a mountain hail storm, overtook us. In five minutes the ground was white, the hail laying two inches deep, and such hail, an Illinois hail storm is tame in comparison.
The horses plunged forward, the hail was left behind, and we paused on the Great Divide. Down from this watershed the waters flow east and west.
The lovely Lake Shoshone comes into view and presently we are standing on its shore looking down through its blue waters. The elevation of this lake is greater than that of its royal neighbor, the Yellowstone.
This most lovely of all American lakes, the Yellow Stone, is perched high in the very heart of the mountains, its blue waters lapping the base of cold, snow-capped peaks, rivals in beauty the far famed Lake Maggiore.
On these beautiful shores fair Nausicaa with her golden ball might have deigned to tread the mazes of the ball-dance.
The elevation of this lake is marvelous for its size. drop Mount Washington, the highest peak in the White Mountains, into the center of it and the summit would be swept by a current half a mile deep.
This lake affords royal sport. Here are the most beautiful fish in the world, the rainbow trout.
Through a pine-clad gorge flanked by high bluffs the impetuous Yellowstone River makes[244] its way until it leaps the great falls and plunges down three hundred and fifty feet to the cañon below.
On the sides of the spray-washed walls grow mosses and algæ of every hue of green, ochre, orange, brown, scarlet, saffron and red. On rugged peaks are brown eagles’ nests.
The Grand Cañon of the Yellowstone, would you describe this marvelous gorge, language is inadequate, words are poor.
Would you paint it, on your palette place all colors yet produced by the ingenuity of man. Mix them with rainbow drops. The pale faced moon will lend a shade, the stars another and the sun still another as he drops blood-red down through the mists of the sea. Stir and mix with matchless skill until you have of colors half a hundred and shades as many more. Now boldly dash the stupendous walls, castles, pinnacles, turrets, columns, and minarets where already they are gleaming a bright vermilion as they from Vulcan’s fiery furnace issued long ago.
When you have these colors fixed let Phaethon drive down the gorge in his chariot of fire leaving behind the gleam and the glow of it.
Here, the Sioux chiefs, crouching by their camp fires muttered their griefs and their woes. Here Rain in the Face cried out in revenge, revenge on the White chief with the Yellow Hair.
Yonder lay Sitting Bull with his three thousand warriors hidden in cleft and cave. Into the fateful snare dashed the White chief with his pitiful three hundred men. Like a mountain torrent Sitting Bull and his braves swept down upon that gallant band, and but one was left to tell the story of the Little Big Horn, but one to tell of the gallant stand of Custer and his brave men.
Only two survived of all that noble band, one, Curly, the half-breed scout, and the other, “Comanche,” the horse of Captain Keogh. Comanche was found several miles from the battle field with seven wounds. He recovered and the secretary of war detailed a soldier as his attendant.
Here, too, the Crow took revenge when driven back by the white man. Here they peopled the boiling, hissing springs and the steaming geysers with evil spirits, while beyond the mountains lay the Happy Hunting Ground.
A small remnant of this band gathered at the head of the Grand Cañon and there resolve with Spartan courage to die rather than be removed to a distant land there to die of homesickness and longing for the blue sky and the breath of the sweet air of their beloved mountains.
They built a raft and set it afloat at the foot of the Upper Falls feeling the peace and security that the mountains give, but they were rudely awakened one morning by the sharp crack of the white man’s rifle, the soldiers were upon them. Hastily boarding their raft they pushed it out into mid-stream. The strong current gathered the craft tossing it and pitching it onward on its foamy crest. The soldiers gaze in wonder, forgetting to fire. On, on, faster whirls that frail craft while above the wild roar of the water floats the death song.
Beyond, yawns a chasm three hundred and fifty feet deep, the death chant is lost amidst the roar of the mighty torrent. The hardened soldier shudders as that lone adventurous craft, freighted with the remnant of a powerful people, is gathered in the arms of that mighty torrent, hurled over the brink and dashed to pieces on the cruel rocks below, where the Maid of the Mist washed white each red man’s soul.
On June twenty-seventh last, word was telegraphed over the country that a new geyser had burst forth from an old crater about fifty feet from the famous Fountain Geyser. The eruption played from two hundred to two hundred and fifty feet high.
Tired, stage tired, we were snug in comforts and blankets and sound asleep one night in August at the Fountain hotel, when about twelve o’clock gongs sounded, bells rang and porters went running about pounding on the doors and crying, what seemed to our sleepy imagination, “Fire,” but presently we heard distinctly the words, the new geyser is playing. “The new geyser is playing,” went echoing down the corridors.
In ten minutes every tourist was out, in all sorts of costumes from blanket to full dress, either shivering on the long veranda or hurrying down to the basin to see the new geyser play, and right royally he did it, too.
Upward into the black night shot a stupendous column of water three hundred feet high. The porters were the first to arrive and playing their red calcium lights on the wonderful body of falling water gave us a display of fire and water that must be seen to be appreciated. The now flaming vermilion column rose steadily upward, seemingly through the red glare three hundred feet, the delicate, rose colored steam rising much higher, swayed in the breeze, now falling, now lifting, now floating away into the black night a rosy cloud.
The hotel cat hurried to the scene of action but lost his bearings and stood fascinated by the magic scene, the hot spray falling about him until some one picked him up and carried him out of danger.
In the reception hall of this hotel an old fashioned fireplace filled with glowing pine logs sent out showers of welcoming sparks. A big green back log sang again the anthem of the wild storm-swept mountain forest, while outside the rain came down in torrents.
The most wonderful features of the Rocky Mountains lie within the confines of Yellowstone Park. The world’s oldest rocks, granite, gneisse and basalt are found here. Later dynamic action held sway and the region became the center of mountain building on a grand scale. Rocky beds tossed up and down. Next came the reign of Vulcan. Fire held sway. Volcanic materials overflowed the region. Next came the ice age, when glaciers[249] plowed down the mountain sides. Just now the hydrothermal agents are most active.
After miles of mountain climbing and five hundred more of staging in the heart of the Rockies, through groves of pine firs, spruce and cedar, along streams and lakes bordered by aspen, willow and wild flowers, through glades and glens, ravines and gorges, one begins to get some idea of the vastness, ruggedness and grandeur of the mountains and the delicacy of the climate. One begins to understand how in average summer temperature of sixty degrees pinks, geraniums, orchids, mosses, roses and lilies, alternately bathed in sunshine and snow, bloom on, reaching a perfection beyond that of our prairie flowers.
The mountain thistles are beautiful beyond compare. The delicate purple blossoms are borne on slender stems, the dainty green leaves touched with white, drooping gracefully, give the plant more the appearance of an orchid than of the common weed it is.
Over in Hayden valley roam fifty head of buffalo, all that is left of that royal band, the fine for killing one of which is five hundred dollars. Deer and elk roam ravine and mountain[250] side, sleek, fat fellows that make you glad that they are under Uncle Sam’s protection. We passed a group of deer in a wooded ravine, their smooth coats shining like satin in the sunshine as they gazed at us out of pathetic brown eyes that had something of the human in them.
“I couldn’t kill one of them innocent creatures if the law permitted me,” said the driver, who was an old mountaineer and loved the things of the mountains.
Now and then one sees a mountain lion. The less noble game abound also, the fox, martin, beaver, woodchuck and gopher. Ground squirrels run about the hotels and camps in search of food. Under our window one evening three of these little animals were having a tug of war over a bread crust. The crust at last divided, one lost his hold and the other two ran away with the spoil.
The gray squirrels are very numerous, showing little fear of the passer-by as they run along playing tag or race up and down the trunks of great trees.
The Rocky Mountain quail differs from our own in being larger and having a crest on its head.
Both Black and Cinnamon bear haunt the vicinities of the hotels and camps in search of food. A big black fellow was pointed out to us one morning who had stolen a ham from one of the camps the night before. The ham had disappeared and there stood Bruin waiting for a chance to steal another. One of the men walked up to him and gave him a slice of bacon, which he took from his hands. When he had eaten it he looked inquiringly about for more. This time the meat was hung up in a tree. Bruin sniffed the odor, located the bacon, climbed the tree, knocked the meat down and came down and ate it. Then he sat down on his haunches, folding his paws and looking up at his new-found friend as if asking for more.
At the Fountain hotel are two cubs, Micky and Anna Rooney. They are very fond of sugar. When offered any food they stand up and reach out their paws for it or they will take it out of your hand.
Micky is a happy rollicking fellow, but Anna is more sedate, quick of temper and free in the use of her paws when angry. When offended she climbs to the top of her pole and sitting down on the board nailed there refuses to come down for anything less than a lump of sugar.
As these bears are still mere babies they are fed milk from a bottle. They stand up, clasp the bottle in their paws and proceed to drink the milk through a hole in the cork.
One evening something was wrong with Micky’s bottle. While the attendant was fixing it Micky dropped on his haunches, folded his paws across his chest, holding his head first on one side then on the other, looking very wise the while. The attendant being somewhat slow, Micky dropped to the ground but never once took his eyes off that bottle. While Micky was waiting for his supper Anna had finished hers and was thrusting her paws into the pockets of the attendant in search of candy and sugar.
At another hotel was a Bruin and her two babies. When these youngsters refused to enter the bath tub provided for them the mother would coax them to the edge of the tub, push them in, hold them down and give them a good scrub.
The National Park should be extended one hundred miles farther south to the Black-Hole country. The park game descends to the Black-Hole during the winter where the hunters lay in wait for it. In this way park buffalo were nearly exterminated.
Of the natural wonders of the world our country possesses namely: Niagara, Yellowstone Park, Yosemite, Grand Cañon of the Colorado, and the Glacial Coast of Alaska. The Mammoth Cave might take sixth rank, but leaving it out we will not go to Europe, but to the Himalayas for one and to the Andes for the other.
The petrified forests are equally as interesting as the geysers. Southwest of Pleasant Valley is a small grove of petrified trees. Near Hell-roaring Creek is a massive promontory, composed of conglomerates, and numerous beds of sandstones and shales. Throughout these strata are numerous silicified remains of trees. Many of the trees are standing upright just as they grew.
On the northern side of Amethyst Mountain is another section of strata nearly two thousand feet high. The ground here is strewn with trunks and limbs of trees which have been petrified into a clear white agate. In one place rows of tree trunks stand out on the ledge like the columns of an old ruin. Farther down the[254] mountain side are prostrate trunks fifty feet long. The strata in which these trunks are found is composed of coarse conglomerates, greenish sandstone and indurated clay.
These strata contain many vegetable and animal remains. Branches, roots, snakes, fishes, toads and fruits. Among these petrified objects one finds the most beautiful crystallizations of all shades of red from the delicate rose to a deep crimson. As to the trees the woody structure is in many cases well preserved.
Just beyond the eastern boundary of the park lies the Hoodoo region of the Shoshone Mountains. Here, in the very heart of the old Rockies the banshee, ghosts and goblins of all the region round about hold high jinks.
The scenery is wild and rough. The Goblin Mountain itself is over ten thousand feet high and a mile long. The storms of ages have carved the conglomerate breccia and volcanic rocks into the most strange, weird and fantastic shapes.
The vivid imagination of the Indian sees in these gigantic forms, beasts, birds and reptiles. Here a couchant tiger and there the huge figure of a Thunder Bird. Yonder a hungry bear sits on his haunches waiting for a passing Indian. In the moonlight strange spectral shapes seem to pass in and out these weird labyrinths. The rocks are all shades and colors. Mysterious sounds in the air above add interest to the most weird scene in the Rockies, a fit setting for the witch scene in Macbeth.
In yonder dark cavern the huge cauldron might boil and bubble as the fire lights up the faces of the sinister three who stir the grewsome mess, while around yon black bowlder stealthily steals guilty Macbeth.
Which of the grand scenes do I treasure the most? I do not know. I cannot tell. Each in turn holds, fascinates, and enthralls the mind. Each becomes in the language of Keats:
“An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.”