SPRING 



223 



notwithstanding a lively experience 

 with a snow storm. Had it not been 

 for a snug log cabin, in which we took 

 refuge, we should have suffered with 

 the cold. Can you tell me anything that 

 feels pleasanter to a camper than a 

 snug, dry bed and a warm shelter from 

 the storm ? 



As October was approaching and we 

 had one hundred miles of the western 

 slope of the Rockies to explore, we pur- 

 sued our course as directly as possible 

 to Steamboat Springs, which we 

 reached in six days. The journey down 

 Grand River, up the "Troublesome, " 

 over the "Muddy," on the Rabbit Ear 

 Range and down Bear River afforded 

 countless incidents of interest which I 

 will not take the space to tell ; but I 

 must say that on the Rabbit Ear Range 

 we saw bear tracks in a recent fall of 

 snow that measured fourteen inches in 

 length. I should like to have stayed 

 and taken up the chase, but our time 

 was limited. Steamboat Springs, with 



her 150 varieties of mineral springs, 

 afforded us most excellent pastime for 

 a month, in which time we also ex- 

 plored the surrounding country for 

 minerals. Gold, silver, copper, lead, 

 zinc, coal, iron, marble, we found to 

 be variously distributed along the 

 range. 



Hahn's Peak, the great placer mining 

 district twenty-seven miles northwest 

 of Steamboat, was our destination. We 

 left there the 10th day of November 

 in a terrific snowstorm. From Steam- 

 boat we shipped via Wolcott on the 

 D. & R. G. R. R. one hundred pounds 

 of minerals. 



I shall never forget this three 

 months' outing in the mountains, re- 

 plete as it was with all manner of dis- 

 comforts and adventure, all of which 

 upon our return to Denver were the 

 main topic of conversation for a year 

 after ; in fact, is still gone over in de- 

 tail whenever the conversation drifts 

 that way. 



RARE DAYS 



By STACY E. BAKER. 



Rare days are these ; the greening trees, 

 Wind-stirred to pulsing symphonies, 



Speak of the gladsome days of spring. 



The errant brook is murmuring 

 Its rarest, fairest, vocal glees. 



The flowers bloom ; the bumble-bees 

 Drone out a pean on the breeze, 



The meadow-lark is on the wing — 

 Rare days are these ! 



His mocking cadence spun to please, 

 The cat-bird whistles o'er the leas 



A shrill and careless offering, 



And then, ashamed, makes haste to sing, 

 His injured conscience to appease — 

 Rare days are these ! 



