dutton.) APPROACHING THE BRINK. 141 



a miserable struggle with fallen trees and thick set branches of spruce 

 and aspen, but at length the heights are gained, and we descend into a 

 shallow ravine where the way is once more open. The winding glade with 

 smooth bottom richly carpeted with long green grass, aglow with myr- 

 iads of beautiful blossoms is before us, and the tall trees are on either 

 hand. Soon it leads into a larger one, and this into another, until at last 

 the main ravine is reached. Very sweet and touching now are the influ- 

 ences of nature. The balmy air, the dark and somber spruces, the pale 

 green aspens, the golden shafts of sunlight shot through their foliage, the 

 velvet sward — surely this is the home of the woodland nymphs, and at 

 every turn of the way we can fancy we are about to see them Hying at 

 our approach, or peeping at us from the flowery banks. 



By half-past ten the spring is reached. Next to the Big Spring, in 

 Stewart's Oafion, it is the largest on the summit of the plateau. Bere, 

 too, is the only semblance of running water, for the stream flows a little 

 more than half a mile before it sinks. The water is cold and delicious. 

 It has a faint whitish cast like that which would be produced by putting 

 a drop or two of milk into a bucket of pure water. I presume it is caused 

 by a fine precipitate of lime. We called it the "Milk Spring." 

 Pausing here for a hasty lunch, and to till the kegs (for to-night we may 

 make a " dry" camp), we push on. We climb out of the ravine, and in 

 fact we only came here to obtain water, as it is the only place near to 

 the point of destination at which water can be procured. The route 

 now becomes more rugged, leading across ravines and over intervening 

 ridges, crossing the grain of the country, so to speak. But it is not diffi- 

 cult, for the pines have taken place of the spruces, and where the pines 

 predominate the forestis very open. For eight miles from the Milk Spring 

 we continue to crossbills and valleys, then follow alow swale shaded by 

 giant pines with trunks three to four feet in thickness. The banks are a 

 parterre of flowers. On yonderhillside, beneath oneof these kingly trees, 

 is a spot which seems to glow with an unwonted wealth of floral beauty. 

 It is scarcely a hundred yards distant; let us pluck a bouquet from it. 

 We ride up the slope. 



The earth suddenly sinks at our feet to illimitable depths. In an in- 

 stant, in the twinkling of an eye, the awful scene is before us. 



