THE MUSEUM. 



135- 



of pure water by slipping around the 

 back way, or a glass of foul liquor 

 through the front way, and it impres- 

 ses itself upon the weary traveler, ex- 

 hausted with wandering in a rare 

 atmosphere, and panting for a cup of 

 cool mountain water, as more nearly 

 the Garden of the Devils than of the 

 Gods. We had a good deal of sym- 

 pathy with a good old lady and her 

 liege lord, both from a region where 

 mountain brook and chasm and air 

 were all unknown. They were piloted 

 through by an imaginative individual 

 and dropped down in town before they 

 could catch a long breath. They 

 called it the "Garden of the hack 

 drivers." 



The reader who is a collector will 

 appreciate this bit of experience, our 

 first day out. I started for a photo- 

 graphers to fill our plate holders, having 

 forgotten this task. I gave over all 

 my folding insect nets, bottles, and 

 even my camera, to the party to col- 

 lect with, while two of us went to per- 

 form the aforementioned part. We 

 were to meet at the gateway, when the 

 camera would be brought into use and 

 a series of views taken. I was delayed 

 and so got to the gateway after the 

 appointed time, after a three-mile 

 walk. It was deserted. We found a 

 good place to rest, where the Peak 

 was visible between the pillars of red 

 sandstone, and feasted on the sight. 

 It was a grand one. The summit is 

 distant some twelve or fifteen miles, 

 but it looks but two or three. Some 

 light clouds rest above the mountain, 

 and along one side is a small smoke 

 column, marking the point reached by 

 a train on the cog- road. Just beyond 

 the gateway are seen the various rock 

 forms of the Garden, the results of 



centuries of erosion. How many win- 

 ters the winds, and snows, and storms 

 have beatean upon this sandstone we 

 cannot estimate. The peculiar forma- 

 tions all have their names. A little 

 rock and a good deal of imagination 

 and you have a man, a coach and four, 

 a bear, a sea lion, a frog, or a goat. 



It is an inspiring sight. At our feet 

 are the odd carvings of wind and rain 

 for ages. The Peak beyond pierces 

 the azure blue of heaven. Eastward 

 the plain stretches away for hundreds 

 of miles until it finally is parted by the 

 great "Father of Waters." To the 

 left is Cheyenne Mountain, one of the 

 most entrancing places of God's crea- 

 tion. To the right is the hill that con- 

 tains the beautiful and fantastic stalac- 

 tites and stalagmites of the region. 

 Far away to the north is seen peak 

 after peak, as far as the eye can fol- 

 low, until lost in the dim haze of dis- 

 tance. 



One can readily imagine that here 

 the Gods sported and played when 

 ages ago the mountains and plains and 

 gorges and ravines and cliffs were all 

 in process of formation. Man was not 

 yet upon the face of the earth. The 

 face of the red man had not been mir- 

 rored in the placid surface of a moun- 

 tain pool. His blood curdling yell had 

 never b een heard. The trout had not 

 yet ascended the mountain streams, 

 alpine flowers had not yet had an in- 

 troduction into the sunny slopes. The 

 buffalo, the elk, the prairie dog, the 

 deer, the wolf, all were unknown, but 

 in their stead strange beasts of huge 

 size and unwieldly forms roamed at 

 will, while in their rage the Gods tore 

 and rent these huge columns and lay- 

 ers of sandstone, in their wrath, push- 

 ing them high toward heaven, ready to- 



