LETTER III. 



39 



an unbroken sea of silky yellow grass or arable 

 land. A few white farms far off the line, or a 

 clump of hay-ricks, may now and again break 

 the level of the horizon ; but the land seems to 

 have no feature but immensity, no character save 

 loneliness. What it lacks in outline, Nature has 

 made up to it in colour. Golden sunlight seems 

 to dwell forever in the soft prairie grasses curtsey- 

 ing in endless ripples before the prevailing wind. 

 The round, small lakes at which the buffalo 

 used to water are bluer than amethyst in the 

 sun ; here and there the alkali round some larger 

 pond glistens like burnished silver, and as we 

 look forward along the perfectly straight pathway 

 of the line, a great red sun comes down in glow- 

 ing splendour, touches the white cottage of the 

 pioneer, and decks its meanness with golden 

 purple, and sinks in a flood of colour right be- 

 tween the rails. In the morning we are by the 

 Saskatchewan at Medicine Hat. There is wilder 

 scenery beyond, but none which struck me as 

 being ruder. Surely here Nature must have 

 made her first essay, flat mud, yellow and un- 

 covered with herbage, rolling as far as the eye 

 can see under yellow sunlight. A monotonous 

 river and a few Indian teepees alone vary the 

 outlook for half a day. 



The next day we passed through the land of 



