IN THE SAN JUAN COUNTRY. 



271 



It would be difficult to imagine a country 

 more favored by Nature -than these moun- 

 tains of Southwestern Colorado, carved as 

 they are into beautiful canyons and val- 

 leys and clothed with a wealth and splen- 

 dor of vegetation I have never seen 

 approached. Especially in the region of 

 the timber line are the mountains one vast 

 garden, ablaze with color that, changing in 

 tone and tint with every turn, extends up 

 the peaks, to finally nestle in the snow 

 packs at the summit. . Nothing could 

 exceed the pleasure of the days afield in 

 this garden of Nature, where the traveler 

 is constantly surprised at the lavish hand 

 with which she has bestowed her favors, 

 and delighted with the luxurious abundance 

 of forms and the infinite variety and wealth 

 of coloration. At times I toiled knee deep 

 through fields of columbine, which swayed 

 their huge clusters of light blue cornu- 

 copias as if in welcome. Again I traversed 

 great stretches of deep green carpeting of 

 marigold, studded thick with the gleaming 

 white stars of its flowers; or possibly these 

 cheery sweeps were interspersed by a 

 crimson trail of Indian pink, whose subtle 

 perfume filled all the air. Sometimes 

 mountain sides would blossom in the 

 bright scarlet, yellow or white of the 

 painted cup; or the various families of 

 these little plants would grow together, 

 arranging their showy liveries in a most 

 pleasing and harmonious manner. Fre- 

 quently, quite at the summit, large fields 

 would be disclosed, white with the nod- 

 ding soft spikes of the knot weed and the 

 graceful, wand-like plumes of Zygadenus. 

 Lower down the mountains the dells and 

 ravines were generally heaped full with 

 luxuriant growths of dark blue larkspur 

 and aconite, and banked high with pur- 

 plish blue bells of mertensia. Winding 

 along over these valleys and rolling slopes 

 suddenly a crest would be disclosed lit 

 up like a sunburst with the matchless 

 yellow of sunflowers and souchus. Every 



little stream and spring was gilded with 

 cups of ninulus, and cress and saxifrage 

 struggled along the borders to complete 

 the picture. 



It was interesting to see these delicate 

 plants outstripping the spruces and other 

 trees in their race for the summit, and the 

 race was always to the fairer. Gradually 

 the rugged and stately .spruces yielded to 

 the cold of the snow and ice, became 

 smaller and smaller until they only at- 

 tained a stature of a foot or so, putting 

 out a few branches close to the earth, as 

 if in mute appeal to the mercy of the 

 elements. Not so with the flowering 

 plants. Many were at their best at timber 

 line, and even flourished and displayed 

 their beauty in the ice and snow at the 

 summit. 



He who runs might read the lesson so 

 graphically written here by these children 

 of the sun. Success is achieved by those 

 who can adapt themselves to conditions. 

 The sturdy trees, so long nurtured by 

 kind Nature, had forgotten this lesson in 

 the long lapses of past ages and had grown 

 hard and unbending in character; but the 

 tender herbs, plastic to all touches and in- 

 fluences, had swept on and pre-empted lo- 

 calities beyond the reach of the ever- 

 greens. It was pleasing to see with what 

 added beauties the flowers welcomed the 

 traveler and lost not a whit of this charm 

 through their sacrifices. 



From this garden of the immortals a 

 delightful way led down to the nether 

 world, over a road hewn out of the bar- 

 ren, rock-ribbed crests of the mountains, 

 hanging like an eagle's nest on the pre- 

 cipitous flank of the canyon. Sheer down 

 below, 1,200 feet, the stream concealed its 

 uneven course in the fleecy white band of 

 its torrents. Through an architectural 

 drapery that stands unrivaled in Colorado, 

 we wandered until with a turn of the road 

 and the setting sun, before us, in the huge 

 chalice of the lofty encircling peaks, lay 

 that matchless mountain town, Ouray. 



Mrs. Crimsonbeak — It was very rude of 

 you to yawn while we were making that 

 call. 



Mr. Crimsonbeak — Well, good gracious! 

 I had to open my mouth some time. — 

 Pearson's Weekly. 



A baggage man out in Podunk, 

 Who made of new baggage old junk, 



Shipped an elephant through 



To Kalamazoo, 

 But he didn't smash open its trunk. 

 — Detroit Free Press. 



