ndemned by the civil engineers. Some day the
iron one will come down, just as Stampede Tunnel will, and the results
will be even more startling.

Late in the night we ran over a skunk--ran over it in the dark.
Everything that has been said about the skunk is true. It is an Awesome
Stink.

No. XXIX

SHOWS HOW YANKEE JIM INTRODUCED ME TO DIANA OF THE CROSSWAYS ON THE
BANKS OF THE YELLOWSTONE, AND HOW A GERMAN JEW SAID I WAS NO TRUE
CITIZEN. ENDS WITH THE CELEBRATION OF THE 4TH OF JULY AND A FEW LESSONS
THEREFROM.

Livingstone is a town of two thousand people, and the junction for the
little side-line that takes you to the Yellowstone National Park. It
lies in a fold of the prairie, and behind it is the Yellowstone River
and the gate of the mountains through which the river flows. There is
one street in the town, where the cowboy's pony and the little foal of
the brood-mare in the buggy rest contentedly in the blinding sunshine
while the cowboy gets himself shaved at the only other barber's shop,
and swaps lies at the bar. I exhausted the town, including the saloons,
in ten minutes, and got away on the rolling grass downs where I threw
myself to rest. Directly under the hill I was on, swept a drove of
horses in charge of two mounted men. That was a picture I shall not soon
forget. A light haze of dust went up from the hoof-trodden green,
scarcely veiling the unfettered deviltries of three hundred horses who
very much wanted to stop and graze. "Yow! Yow! Yow!" yapped the mounted
men in chorus like coyotes. The column moved forward at a trot, divided
as it met a hillock and scattered into fan shape all among the suburbs
of Livingstone. I heard the "snick" of a stock whip, half a dozen "Yow,
yows," and the mob had come together again, and, with neighing and
whickering and squealing and a great deal of kicking on the part of the
youngsters, rolled like a wave of brown water toward the uplands.

I was within twenty feet of the leader, a grey stallion--lord of many
brood-mares all deeply concerned for the welfare of their fuzzy foals. A
cream-coloured beast--I knew him at once for the bad character of the
troop--broke back, taking with him some frivolous fillies. I heard the
snick of the whips somewhere in the dust, and the fillies came back at a
canter, very shocked and indignant. On the heels of the last rode both
the stockmen--picturesque ruffians who wanted to know "what in hell" I
was doing there, waved their