o the sight as a newly varnished picture.

We didn't down brakes until we reached Colorado Springs; there we
changed cars for Manitou. Already the castellated rocks were filling us
with childish delight. Fungi decked the cliffs above us: colossal,
petrified fungi, painted Indian fashion. At any rate, there is a kind of
wild, out-of-door, subdued harmony in the rock-tints upon the exterior
slopes of the famed Garden of the Gods, quite in keeping with the spirit
of the decorative red-man. Within that garden color and form run riot,
and Manitou is the restful outpost of this erratic wilderness.

It is fitting that Manitou should be approached in a rather primitive
manner. I was glad when we were very politely invited to get out of the
train and walk a plank over a puddle that for a moment submerged the
track; glad when we were advised to foot it over a trestle-bridge that
sagged in the swift current of a swollen stream; and gladder still when
our locomotive began to puff and blow and slaken its pace as we climbed
up into the mouth of a ravine fragrant with the warm scents of
summer--albeit we could boast but a solitary brace of cars, and these
small ones, and not overcrowded at that.

Only think of it! We were scarcely three hours by rail from Denver; and
yet here, in Manitou, were the very elements so noticeably lacking
there. Nature in her natural state--primitive forever; the air seasoned
with the pungent spices of odoriferous herbs; the sweetest sunshine in
abundance, and all the shade that makes sunshine most agreeable.

Manitou is a picturesque hamlet that has scattered itself up and down a
deep ravine, regardless of the limiting lines of the surveyor. The
railway station at Manitou might pose for a porter's lodge in the
prettiest park in England. Surely there is hope for America when she can
so far curb her vulgar love of the merely practical as to do that sort
of thing at the right time and in the right place.

A fine stream brawls through the bed of this lovely vale. There are
rustic cottages that cluster upon the brink of the stream, as if charmed
by the music of its song; and I am sure that the cottagers dwelling
therein have no wish to hang their harps upon any willows whatever; or
to mingle their tears, though these were indeed the waters of Babylon
that flow softly night and day through the green groves of Manitou. The
breeze stirs the pulse like a tonic; birds, bees, and butterflies dance
in the air; the