A BIRD-GAZER AT THE CANON 



No more prairie. The earth was all heaved up 

 into hills. And just then the train ran into the 

 darkness of a tunnel, and when it emerged, the 

 traveler was in New Mexico. 



All that day he journeyed among hills, now 

 near, now far, now high, now low, now wooded, 

 now bare as so many gravel heaps ("not moun- 

 tains, just buttes," a train-hand told him), now in 

 ranges, now solitary. Indian villages, a long run 

 along the Rio Grande, a stop at Albuquerque, 

 brilliantly colored cliffs and crags, a gorgeous 

 sunset, — indeed, it was a memorable, many-fea- 

 tured day. And in the morning, after miles of level 

 pine forest, — the Coconino Plateau, — he was at 

 the Grand Canon, where he had desired to be. 



He was not disappointed. Wise men seldom 

 are. He had known perfectly well that he should 

 not see the wonder and glory of the place at a 

 first look. His mind is slow, and he has lived 

 with it long enough to have learned a little of its 

 weakness. The Canon was astounding, unspeak- 

 able. Words were never made that could express 

 it. And the shapes and the colors ! " Magnifi- 

 cent ! Magnificent ! " he said. " But it is too much 

 like the pictures. I must wait till they have been 

 forgotten, and I can see the Caiion for itself." 



So he wandered off into the woods, an endless 

 forest of pines and cedars. Perhaps he should 

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