INTO WYOMING 217 



It is twenty-four miles from Laketown ham- 

 let at the upper end to a little ranch at the 

 lower end, where the east shore trail which I 

 followed joined the turnpike from Garden City 

 leading on to Montpelier. At the little ranch 

 at Turnpike, which I reached at half past four 

 in the afternoon and where I halted for the 

 night, hot sulphur springs boil out of the moun- 

 tain base and the water runs down in steaming 

 brooks to join the lake. 



With a native of the ranch I walked along 

 the beach sands to see the sun set in sublime 

 effulgence of red, purple, and yellow beyond 

 the mountains on the opposite shore. The man 

 was a poet and a dreamer. He had a most de- 

 liberate manner of expression, which accentu- 

 ated his peculiarities. He had spent his life in 

 this region; beyond a bit of the surrounding 

 mountains and near-by wilderness, he had seen 

 nothing of the world. 



"Every evenin' I come down here," said he, 

 "t' see th' sun go down an' th' sky light up with 

 bright colors, an' I think I'd like t' see th' 

 other countries th' sun lights when it leaves us. 

 They must be lands of great beauty t' reflect 

 such colors in th' sky, for th' sky, I takes it, is 

 just a big mirror. Maybe, though, it's not 

 earthly lands, but heaven, that's reflected. An' 



