The Last of the Plainsmen 



the pines equaled that of the cave under Niagara, 

 and the bewildering, whirling mass of snow was as 

 difficult to see through as the tumbling, seething 

 waterfall. 



I was confronted by the possibility of passing the 

 night there, and calming my fears as best I could, 

 hastily felt for my matches and knife. The prospect 

 of being lost the next day in a white forest was also 

 appalling, but I soon reassured myself that the storm 

 was only a snow squall, and would not last long. 

 Then I gave myself up to the pleasure and beauty 

 of it. I could only faintly discern the dim trees; 

 the limbs of the spruce, which partially protected me, 

 sagged down to my head with their burden; I had 

 but to reach out my hand for a snowball. Both the 

 wind and snow seemed warm. The great flakes were 

 like swan feathers on a summer breeze. There was 

 something joyous in the whirl of snow and roar of 

 wind. While I bent over to shake my holster, the 

 storm passed as suddenly as it had come. When I 

 looked up, there were the pines, like pillars of Parian 

 marble, and a white shadow, a vanishing cloud fled, 

 with receding roar, on the wings of the wind. Fast 

 on this retreat burst the warm, bright sun. 



I faced my course, and was delighted to see, 

 through an opening where the ravine cut out of the 

 forest, the red-tipped peaks of the canon, and the 



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