terrible in their immensity, came some of the 

 most charming of all wild gardens, — as a rainbow 

 follows a thunder-storm. These serene and alto- 

 gether beautiful aspedis of Nature were the 

 outcome of tumult and passion — earthquakes, ava- 

 lanches, lava-flows, glaciers, and now these idyllic 

 meadows, beloved of bees and blossoms. 



There is a certain canon hereabout which is 

 closed abruptly at one end by a precipice, over 

 which descends a considerable stream. This fall 

 is a thing of beauty, and so holds the eye that few 

 think of scaling the cliffs to see what may be 

 beyond. But, as it happens, there lies above, and 

 sundered from the world beneath, one of the most 

 delightful little valleys in the Rockies — a long, 

 narrow defile, flanked by perpendicular cliffs of 

 pink and red and buff sandstone. 



All day the black-headed grosbeak sings in the 

 aspens, dropping from one reverie into another. 

 You may hear the voice of the green-tailed towhee, 

 and the canon-wren singing from his rock temple. 

 The stream winds along the floor of the little 

 valley, which is some eight thousand feet above 

 the sea, now through quaking aspens and now 

 under spruce, and its voice is as the murmuring 

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