166 
2 
Jaws of Dells. 
il’s Elbow, and soon arrived at the riv- 
er’s narrowest point. It is here only 
about fifty-two feet wide, yet our guide 
tells us that the water is over ninety 
feet deep. 
Artist’s Glen was next passed, and 
we came to Coldwater Cafion. Here, 
if one has the time, a landing may be 
made, and there’s a walk of a half mile 
into the canon, which repays one fully 
by its beauty. Then we find ourselves 
looking at the Devil's Armchair, and 
cannot refrain from remarking that the 
devil’s possessions up in this region 
seem to be undisputed and numerous. 
Steamboat Rock stands on a little 
island about four miles up the river, 
and does, without stretch of the imag- 
ination, remind one of what it repre- 
sents. 
We next pass Rood’s Glen, another 
picturesque point of which we catch 
only a glimpse in passing, though de- 
siring a more extended view, and sud- 
denly our boat is hugging close to the 
shore and there’s a little cleared space 
between the rocks surely, but can this 
be our destination? Is this the Witch’s 

lhe American Angler 
Gulch? Again our first impressions 
are disappointing, yet again, likewise, 
we are silent and await developments. 
Securing our boat, the guide tells us to 
follow him and we obey. We walk 
only a few rods when we come toa 
narrow path, which gradually grows 
more narrow, until it abruptly leads us 
into a sort of gorge or canon, and we 
enter the uncanny place single file, 
carefully picking our way and all the 
time full of wonderment. Certainly if 
we thought the Dells marvelous as we 
voyaged up the river, what were our 
thoughts now ? 
We had imagined, when we entered 
the place, that only a few steps would 
lead out into the world again. But no, 
more and more the huge rocks closed 
in upon us, until an arched cave of 
rocks enclosed us wholly. Once in a 
while, through an opening from above, 
the light came in, but it was most of 
the time dark, save the dim rays of 
light from the lantern which our guide 
swung back and forth as he led the 
way—and how dark it was! A narrow 
walk beside a rushing stream, every 
now and then steps to ascend or de- 
scend, sudden turns in the pathway, re- 
vealing by the dim light picturesque 
and romantic surroundings of the most 
weird and uncanny sort imaginable. 
Had we dared listen we felt sure the 
witch’s voice might have been plainly 
heard. Without trying to hear, we 
several times felt sure she whispered 
something, but our interpretations of 
what we thought she said were all so dif- 
ferent, we were finally forced to be 
prosaic enough to conclude it was only 
imagination after all. How beautiful 
and strange it all was. How long we 
kept walking on and on, yet did not 
come to the daylight. For half a mile 
we are in the gulch and the exit is as 
