10 Rod, Gun, and Palette in the High Rockies 



same uneasy feeling that you are going in the wrong direction, 

 the same sleepy mental effort at correction of a known-to-be 

 wrong impression — a pleasant wandering off into a speculative 

 by-path — how such things come to be — Locke on the Under- 

 standing — rather dull old geezer to read — depends on one's state 

 of mind — consciousness of darkness — velvety — well, this is com- 

 fortable and soothing at any rate, even if one doesn't sleep — 

 wonder what the time is — don't want to disturb the others by snap- 

 ping on a light — O, well, Wroe's in the bunk below me, he can't 

 get it — the edge of the bunk will keep it off Art's face on the 

 lounge — snap — watch — snap) — dark — 12.30 — wonder where we set 

 back our watches — course — distance traveled west sets Chicago 

 time a bit ahead — circumference of earth is 25,000 miles — revolves 

 once in 24 hours — rather over 1 ,000 miles an hour — 20 minutes 

 is one- third of an hour — one- third of 1 ,000 is 333 J — aug-g-h — o-ow 

 — oblivion. 



A gray morning, and nearing Council Bluffs, Iowa. On the 

 rear platform I take my hat off to feel the sweet fall rain that 

 refreshes the land. Roll on roll of prairie, belted and banded 

 with cottonwoods, heaves away to a luminous horizon under a 

 free and cloudy sky. The Typhon locks of the rain clouds hang 

 low in the east. With thankfulness to see the open country, I 

 fairly laugh aloud with sheer joy of it, it looks so familiar and 

 kindly, and is wrapped in such a heavenly quietness, the rattle 

 of the train being merely sub-conscious. 



There is a dignified fellow Englishman on the platform, his 

 gray tweeds, drooping gray mustache and eyebrows in perfect 

 accord with his clothing, and with a regulation fresh complexion 

 on a spare and military figure. We are politely unconscious of 

 each other's presence. Unfortunate — very — umpire not there to 

 introduce us, but must observe the rules of the game, you know. 



Wroe joins me and takes a deep breath, and looks as one 

 meeting an old friend as he views the open face of the earth. 

 He comments on the grade of the corn crops we pass — a critical 

 and farmer-like appraisal — distinguishes popcorn for me from 

 other types. We pass a small settlement — he waves his arm to a 

 little boy in overalls in a dooryard. 



"He just had to get up to see the Overland Limited go by. 

 She's never stopped there since she began to run. Goes by once 



