t it is clad
Each dawn, before the tardy plains have won
One ray; and often after day has long been done
For us, the light doth cling reluctant, sad to leave its brow.

H. H.

The happiest day of my summer in the Rocky Mountains was passed in the
heart of a mountain consecrated by the songs and the grave of its lover,
"H. H.,"--beautiful Cheyenne, the grandest and the most graceful of its
range.

Camp Harding, my home for the season, in its charming situation, has
already been described. The fortunate dwellers in this "happy valley"
were blessed with two delectable walks, "down the road" and "up the
road." Down the road presented an enchanting procession of flowers,
which changed from day to day as the season advanced; to-day the scarlet
castilleia, or painter's-brush, flaming out of the coarse grasses;
to-morrow the sand lily, lifting its dainty face above the bare sand;
next week the harebell, in great clumps, nodding across the field, and
next month the mariposa or butterfly lily, just peeping from behind the
brush,--with dozens of others to keep them company. As one went on, the
fields grew broader, the walls of the mesa lowered and drew apart, till
the canyon was lost in the wide, open country.

This was the favorite evening walk, with all the camp dogs in
attendance,--the nimble greyhound, the age-stiffened and sedate spaniel,
the saucy, ill-bred bull-terrier, and the naive baby pug. The loitering
walk usually ended at the red farmhouse a mile away, and the walkers
returned to the camp in the gloaming, loaded with flowers, saturated
with the delicious mountain air, and filled with a peace that passeth
words.

Up the road led into the mountain, under thick-crowding trees, between
frowning rocks, ever growing higher and drawing nearer together, till
the carriage road became a burro track, and then a footpath; now this
side the boisterous brook, then crossing by a log or two to the other
side, and ending in the heart of Cheyenne in a _cul-de-sac_, whose high
perpendicular sides could be scaled only by flights of steps built
against the rocks. From high up the mountain, into this immense rocky
basin, came the brook Shining Water, in seven tremendous leaps, each
more lovely than the last, and reached at bottom a deep stone bowl,
which flung it out in a shower of spray forbidding near approach, and
keeping the rocks forever wet.

The morning walk was up the road, in the grateful shade of the trees,
betwee