CHEYENNE'S POET AND LOVER. 43 



ously ; only the vireo serene as always 

 went on warbling and eating, undisturbed. 



Then I made haste to seek out an obscure 

 spot, where I could sit and wait in silence, to 

 see who might unwittingly show himself . 



I was never lonely, and never tired ; for if 

 as sometimes happened no flit of wing came 

 near to interest me, there before me was beauti- 

 ful Cheyenne, with its changing face never 

 twice alike, and its undying associations with 

 its poet and lover, whose lonely grave makes it 

 forever sacred to those who loved her. There, 

 too, was the wonderful sky of Colorado, so blue 

 it looked almost violet, and near at hand the 

 " Singing Water," whose stirring music was 

 always inspiring. 



One morning I was startled from my reverie 

 by a sudden cry, so loud and clear that I turned 

 quickly to see what manner of bird had uttered 

 it. The voice was peculiar and entirely new to 

 me. First came a scolding note like that of an 

 oriole, then the " chack " of a blackbird, and 

 next a sweet, clear whistle, one following the 

 other rapidly and vehemently, as if the per- 

 former intended to display all his accomplish- 

 ments in a breath. Cheyenne vanished like 

 "the magic mountain of a dream," blue skies 

 were forgotten, the babbling brook unheard, 

 every sense was instantly alert to see that ex- 

 traordinary bird, 



