IN THE PARK 107 



At last we top a little hill, and far off is a spurt 

 of vapor, a jet of steam. ^^Geezers," says Long- 

 bow. Naturally, I did not believe him, but for 

 once, the only time, he was right. On rising 

 ground, fronting the Fountain Geyser, is the 

 Fountain Hotel. We were in time for lunch. We 

 might have seen the sights, pushed on, and been 

 at Old Faithful that night, but our truthful 

 James stretched the distance, which is eleven 

 miles, to nineteen; so we spent the night at the 

 Fountain. 



I am glad we did. Up on the hill near the geyser 

 is a hot spring that, piped to the hotel bath-rooms, 

 affords the most delightful bath I have ever taken. 

 I do not know why, but there is some subtle 

 quality in the water that leaves the skin like a 

 baby's — some of nature's alchemy, one of her 

 mysterious compounds that the chemists cannot 

 duplicate nor even imitate. 



And here we saw our first geyser. The Foun- 

 tain is five minutes' walk from the hotel, and is 

 liable to turn loose almost any time. Near it are 

 the famous Paint Pots. Fancy a basin, perhaps 



