FAR AND NEAR 



Idaho, and Oregon, and they affected me like a 

 nightmare. 



A night's run west of Omaha a change comes 

 over the spirit of nature's dream. We have entered 

 upon that sea of vast rolUng plains; agriculture is 

 left behind ; these gentle slopes and dimpled valleys 

 are innocent of the plow; herds of grazing cattle 

 and horses are seen here and there ; now and then a 

 coyote trots away with feigned indifference from the 

 train, looking like a gray, homeless, sheep-kilhng 

 shepherd dog ; at long intervals a low hut or cabin, 

 looking very forlorn; sometimes a wagon- track leads 

 away and disappears over the treeless hills. How 

 I wanted to stop the train and run out over those 

 vast grassy billows and touch and taste this un- 

 familiar nature ! Here in the early morning I heard 

 my first western meadowlark. The hquid, gurgling 

 song filtered in through the roar of the rushing train. 

 It was very sweet and novel, and made me wish 

 more than ever to call a halt and gain the wild still- 

 ness of the hills and plains, but it contained no sug- 

 gestion of the meadowlark I knew. I saw also the 

 homed lark and the black and white lark bunting 

 from the car window. 



Presently another change comes over the scene: 

 we see the Rockies faint and shadowy in the far 

 distance, their snow-clad summits ghostly and dim; 

 the traveler crosses them on the Union Pacific al- 

 most before he is aware of it. He expects a nearer 

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