the ice had been cut with an axe, and we
could not see whether "glaze" had formed since or not.

I was to have slept at the house of a woman farther down the canyon,
who never ceases talking, but Miller, the young man whose attractive
house and admirable habits I have mentioned before, came out and said
his house was "now fixed for ladies," so we stayed there, and I was
"made as comfortable" as could be. His house is a model. He cleans
everything as soon as it is used, so nothing is ever dirty, and his
stove and cooking gear in their bright parts look like polished silver.
It was amusing to hear the two men talk like two women about various
ways of making bread and biscuits, one even writing out a recipe for
the other. It was almost grievous that a solitary man should have the
power of making a house so comfortable! They heated a stone for my
feet, warmed a blanket for me to sleep in, and put logs enough on the
fire to burn all night, for the mercury was eleven below zero. The
stars were intensely bright, and a well-defined auroral arch, throwing
off fantastic coruscations, lighted the whole northern sky. Yet I was
only in the Foot Hills, and Long's glorious Peak was not to be seen.
Miller had all his things "washed up" and his "pots and pans" cleaned
in ten minutes after supper, and then had the whole evening in which to
smoke and enjoy himself--a poor woman would probably have been "fussing
round" till 10 o'clock about the same work. Besides Ring there was
another gigantic dog craving for notice, and two large cats, which, the
whole evening, were on their master's knee. Cold as the night was, the
house was chinked, and the rooms felt quite warm. I even missed the
free currents of air which I had been used to! This was my last
evening in what may be called a mountainous region.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was well risen, we left for our
journey of 30 miles, which had to be done nearly at a foot's pace,
owing to one horse being encumbered with my luggage. I did not wish to
realize that it was my last ride, and my last association with any of
the men of the mountains whom I had learned to trust, and in some
respects to admire. No more hunters' tales told while the pine knots
crack and blaze; no more thrilling narratives of adventures with
Indians and bears; and never again shall I hear that strange talk of
Nature and her doings which is the speech of those who live with her
and her alone. Already