herish it as he had and never part with it.
One likes to think that perhaps during his last days on earth his eyes
fell on this bright rug, reminding him that in faraway Arizona his
friends were thinking of him and hoping for his recovery.

A wildcat presented by an admirer was voted too energetic a gift to
struggle with, so it was left in the bear cage on the Rim. Somebody
turned it out and it committed suicide by leaping into the Canyon.

A raw cold wind, such as can blow only at the Canyon, swept around the
train as it carried Marshal Foch away. That wind brought tragedy and
sorrow to us there at El Tovar, for, exposed to its cold blast, Mr.
Brant, the hotel manager, contracted pneumonia. Travelers from all parts
of the world knew and loved this genial and kindly gentleman. He had
welcomed guests to El Tovar from the day its portals were first opened
to tourists. Marshal Foch was the last guest he welcomed or waved to in
farewell, for when the next day dawned he was fighting for life and in a
few days he was gone.

He had loved the Canyon with almost a fanatic's devotion, and although
Captain Hance had not been buried on its Rim as had been his deep
desire, Mr. Brant's grave was located not far from the El Tovar,
overlooking the Great Chasm. The tomb had to be blasted from solid rock.
All night long the dull rumble of explosives told me that the rangers,
led by the wearer of the Croix de Guerre, were toiling away. The first
snow of the season was falling when the funeral cortege started for the
grave. White Mountain and other friends were pall-bearers, and twenty
cowboys on black horses followed the casket. Father Vabre read the
burial service, and George Wharton James spoke briefly of the friendship
which had bound them together for many years. Since that time both the
good priest and the famous author have passed on.

Mr. Brant had an Airedale dog that was his constant companion. For days
after his death this dog would get his master's hat and stick and search
all over the hotel for him. He thought it was time for their daily walk.
When the dog died they buried him near his master's grave. This had been
Mr. Brant's request.

The snow grew deeper and the mercury continued to go down, until it was
almost impossible to spend much time outside. But the little iron stove
stuffed full of pine wood kept the cabin fairly warm, and the birds and
squirrels learned to stay close to the stovepipe on the roof.

The squirr