18 IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS. 



enough it looks in June, but it does not, like 

 snow, melt, even under the warm summer sun- 

 shine. It must be swept from garden and walks, 

 and carted away. A heavy rain clears the air 

 and subdues it for a time, but the sun soon dries 

 the bunches still on the trees, and the cotton 

 storm is again in full blast. This annoyance 

 lasts through June and a part of July, fully 

 six weeks, and then the stems themselves drop 

 to the ground, still holding enough cotton to 

 keep up the storm for days. After this, the 

 first rainfall ends the trouble for that season. 



In the midst of the cottonwoods, in beautiful 

 Camp Harding, I spent the June that followed 

 the journey described in the last chapter, 



" Dreaming- sweet, idle dreams of having strayed 

 To Arcady with all its golden lore." 



The birds, of course, were my first concern. 

 Ask of almost any resident not an ornithologist 

 if there are birds in Colorado, and he will shake 

 his head. 



" Not many, I think," he will probably say. 

 " Camp birds and magpies. Oh yes, and larks. 

 I think that 's about all." 



This opinion, oft repeated, did not settle the 

 matter in my mind, for I long ago discovered 

 that none are so ignorant of the birds and 

 flowers of a neighborhood as most of the people 

 who live among them. I sought out my post, 

 and I looked for myself. 



