lovely Cheyenne ends it in graceful slope on the south; lights and
shadows play over it; its colors change with the changing sky or
atmosphere,--sometimes blue as the heavens, sometimes misty as a dream;
it is wonderfully beautiful then. But wait till the sun gets higher;
look again at noon, or a little later. Behold the whole range has sprung
into life, separated into individuals; gorges are cut where none had
appeared; chasms come to light; canyons and all sorts of divisions are
seen; foothills move forward to their proper places, and taller peaks
turn at angles to each other; shapes and colors that one never suspected
come out in the picture: the transformation is marvelous. But the sun
moves on, the magical moment passes, each mountain slips back into line,
and behold, you see again the morning's picture.

Indulge me one moment, while I try to show you the last picture
impressed upon my memory as the train bore me, unwilling, away. It was
cloudy, a storm was coming up, and the whole range was in deep shadow,
when suddenly through some rift in the clouds a burst of sunshine fell
upon the "beloved mountain" Cheyenne, and upon it alone. In a moment it
was a smiling picture,

"Glad
With light as with a garment it was clad;"

all its inequalities, its divisions, its irregularities emphasized, its
greens turned greener, its reds made more glowing,--an unequaled gem for
a parting gift.

To come back to Utah. One morning, on our way up to the heights, as we
were passing a clump of oak-brush, a bird cry rang out. The voice was
loud and clear, and the notes were of a peculiar character: first a
"chack" two or three times repeated, then subdued barks like those of a
distressed puppy, followed by hoarse "mews" and other sounds suggesting
almost any creature rather than one in feathers. But with delight I
recognized the chat; my enthusiasm instantly revived. I unfolded my camp
chair, placed myself against a stone wall on the opposite side of the
road, and became silent and motionless as the wall itself.

My comrade, on the contrary, as was her custom, proceeded with equal
promptness to follow the bird up, to hunt him out. She slipped between
the barbed wires which, quite unnecessarily, one would suppose, defended
the bleak pasture from outside encroachment, and passed out of sight
down an obscure path that led into the brush where the bird was hidden.
Though our ways differ, or rather, p