sute forms of the buffalo, or traces the tiny outlines of the
antelope. Perchance it follows, in pleased wonder, the far-wild gallop
of a snow-white steed.

This is the "grass prairie," the boundless pasture of the bison.

The scene changes. The earth is no longer level, but treeless and
verdant as ever. Its surface exhibits a succession of parallel
undulations, here and there swelling into smooth round hills. It is
covered with a soft turf of brilliant greenness. These undulations
remind one of the ocean after a mighty storm, when the crisped foam has
died upon the waves, and the big swell comes bowling in. They look as
though they had once been such waves, that by an omnipotent mandate had
been transformed to earth and suddenly stood still.

This is the "rolling prairie."

Again the scene changes. I am among greenswards and bright flowers; but
the view is broken by groves and clumps of copse-wood. The frondage is
varied, its tints are vivid, its outlines soft and graceful. As I move
forward, new landscapes open up continuously: views park-like and
picturesque. Gangs of buffalo, herds of antelope, and droves of wild
horses, mottle the far vistas. Turkeys run into the coppice, and
pheasants whirr up from the path.

Where are the owners of these lands, of these flocks and fowls? Where
are the houses, the palaces, that should appertain to these lordly
parks? I look forward, expecting to see the turrets of tall mansions
spring up over the groves. But no. For hundreds of miles around no
chimney sends forth its smoke. Although with a cultivated aspect, this
region is only trodden by the moccasined foot of the hunter, and his
enemy, the Red Indian.

These are the _mottes_--the "islands" of the prairie sea.

I am in the deep forest. It is night, and the log fire throws out its
vermilion glare, painting the objects that surround our bivouac. Huge
trunks stand thickly around us; and massive limbs, grey and giant-like,
stretch out and over. I notice the bark. It is cracked, and clings in
broad scales crisping outward. Long snake-like parasites creep from
tree to tree, coiling the trunks as though they were serpents, and would
crush them! There are no leaves overhead. They have ripened and
fallen; but the white Spanish moss, festooned along the branches, hangs
weeping down like the drapery of a deathbed.

Prostrate trunks, yards in diameter and half-decayed, lie along the
ground. Their ends exhibit