THE HIDDEN CAfiON. 15 



lings and a natural park of a good many acres 

 above it, with tall pines that bear the marks of 

 age, is so curiously hidden that one may come 

 almost upon it without seeing it. It is reached 

 from Colorado Springs by an electric road 

 which runs along the mesa south of the town. 

 As the car nears the end of the line, one begins 

 to look around for the grove. Not a tree is in 

 sight; right and left as far as can be seen 

 stretches the treeless plain to the foot of the 

 eternal hills ; not even the top of a tall pine 

 thrusts itself above the dead level. Before you 

 is Cheyenne grim, glorious, but impenetrable. 

 The conductor stops. " This is your place," he 

 says. You see no place ; you think he must 

 be mistaken. 



" But where is Camp Harding ? " you ask. 

 He points to an obscure path " trail " he calls 

 it which seems to throw itself over an edge. 

 You approach that point, and there, to your 

 wonder and your surprise, at your feet nestles 

 the loveliest of smiling canon-like valleys, filled 

 with trees, aspen, oak, and pine, with here and 

 there a tent or red roof gleaming through the 

 green, and a noisy brook hurrying on its way 

 downhill. By a steep scramble you reach the 

 lower level, birds singing, flowers tempting on 

 every side, and the picturesque, narrow trail 

 leading you on, around the ledge of rock, over* 



