THE SPECTRAL FIDDEER OF TH, BAD PEANIDS: 
By SAMUEL PARKER. 
Four days of wandering through the Bad 
Lands ot Dakota had been so fruitful in the 
discovering of fossil remains, etc., imbedded 
among the hills, that I had decided to remain 
at least a fortnight. My camp supply of food 
having become almost exhausted, Felix, my 
half-breed guide, had started with the ponies 
and wagon for the post, distant about thirty 
miles, for the purpose of obtaining supplies for 
our larder. The distance, and the rough con- 
dition of the wagon trail rendered it impossible 
for him to return to camp until noon the follow- 
ing day. Shortly after his departure in the 
morning, with a few biscuits in my pouch and 
a small flask of water, I set out on one of my ac- 
customed rambles. It was one of those calm, 
delightful days which characterize this wild 
latitude in autumn. The silent hills, reposing 
about me in weird and lonely grandeur, with 
their sleeping outlines almost invisible through 
the dense blue haze ot Indian Summer, resem- 
bled the hills of some ghostly land. 
Over this desolate’region, which was known 
by the early French Canadiaa voyageurs as La 
Mauvaise Terre (the Bad Lands) there broods 
an eternal silence, as deep and awful as that 
which reigned over the primeval chaos, ere 
animated nature became vocal under the smile 
of God. The fantastic mounds, rock-strewn, 
and the beetling crags, deluged with the rains 
of centuries, are voiceless memorials, marking 
an epoch in the world’s history when the 
entire locality was submerged by the billows 
of a vast inland.sea. 
Clasped within the embrace of the massive 
upheavals of chalk and limestone are the en- 
tombed remains of birds, reptiles and animals 
of the pre-historic age—a period so dim and 
shadowy, and so remote withal, that its very 
contemplation is appalling to our finite minds. 
Betore leaving camp in the morning I re- 
solved to devote the entire day to my researches, 
and my route had taken me into a locality 
more strikingly savage and magnificent in 
scenic grandeur than any which I had hitherto 
explored. The rugged summits of the precipi- 
tous cliffs, rising to a height of from two to 
three hundred feet, with their craggy outlines 
silhouetted against the sky, assumed a weird 
variety of monumental forms. Posing dreamily 
on their lofty pedestals, and vaguely defined 
through the smoky haze, were Indian warriors 
seated calmly on their horses; Mohammedan 
mosques with their slender minarets ; gigantic 
dragons harnessed to Roman chariots ; huge 
couchant animals with sphinx-like features, con- 
spicuous among which was the colossal canine 
figure known to scientific explorers in these 
wilds as ‘‘ the watch-dog of the Bad Lands.” 
In the midst of scenery so spectral and 
uncanny my sensations were eerie in the ex- 
treme. An undercurrent of dread, a strange 
haunting presentiment of some impending ca- 
lamity, seemed to possess me, which the tomb- 
like quiet of the place served but to intensify. 
Hitherto in my rambles I had been accompa- 
nied by my guide, whose voluble flow of broken 
French, interspersed with an occasional song, 
had given me no opportunity of noting the 
dreadful silence that reigns over the Bad Lands. 
A man lost amid these deathlike solitudes 
soon becomes frenzied with a terror so wild 
and despairing that he breaks down, sobs 
and cries like a hysterical child. The profound 
and ominous silence, and the deplorable deso- 
lation of his surroundings, inspire him with a 
dread that is absolutely appalling. Does he 
shout, a hundred jeering and derisive echoes 
respond to his piteous appeal from their am- 
bush among the lonely rocks. Crazed with the 
delirium ot thirst, after hours of erratic wan- 
derings through the parched alkaline air, may- 
hap he emerges from the hills to the long, level 
sweep of plains beyond. Then, perchance, 
there bursts upon his eager sight a vision that 
sends a thrill of gladness through his every 
vein. A mile away, and wavering and shim- 
mering through the tremulous air, is the waters 
of a delightful lake, the cool, refreshing billows 
of which are heaving peacefully in the fervid 
glare of the noonday sun. 
But the fabled music of the sirens that de- 
