The Prairie Sharp- tailed Grouse 207 



league of glorious field. Eastward ran that trail, 

 to the crowding ranks of poplar, to the moss- 

 grown portages of the fur traders ; to the rim of 

 the world's rock basin, foam-draped by fresh water 

 seas ; to the black watch of piny stalwarts, stead- 

 fast, awaiting doom by the coming blades ; to the 

 gleam of the mighty rivers ; to the jungle of masts 

 of the shipping ; to the white wrath of shoreward 

 seas, — it ran in unbroken line, the trail of the 

 king of steeds. 



We had seen him gallop in thunderous might, 

 snorting great clouds of vapor and neighing defi- 

 ance and warning to the wild, shy things of his 

 new pastures. We had ridden him on his sun- 

 chasing course, had enjoyed his smooth, tireless 

 action for two thousand miles, and now we were 

 trailing, like our brown brothers had trailed 

 through uncounted years. Behind, beginning 

 miles away, flashed an ocean of golden light 

 where the sun struck fair on the bronzy grass. 

 Before rose a rampart of white, ghostly, impene- 

 trable, shrouding the beyond from too eager eyes. 

 It was exasperating. For weeks I had mentally 

 pictured the first view of the Rockies, by night 

 dreaming, by day conjuring up rock-piles of as- 

 tounding altitude, for I had been born on the 

 level, years before in a land where an artistic soul 

 had to clear its long vistas with an axe, and 

 being poetic and restful by nature, I — well, I 



