102 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



iAuG. 37, 1891. 



KATYDID. 



TN the cooJ, crisp nights of antntnn, 

 When the woods are dark and still, 

 lioud above the lisping crickets 



Rings in accents clear and shrlU 

 That never-ending wrangle of the green-winged katydid: 

 Katy did! 

 Katy didn't! 

 Yes she did I 



From twilight until rosy dawn steals softly o'er the hiUs, 

 These disputatious insects, who inherit stuhborn wills, 

 Are nagging one another with voices rasping rude: 



Who was it broke the bottle? 

 And at once the restless brood: 

 Katy did! 

 Katy didn't! 

 Yes she did! 



When frosty nights have chilled the herceness of their rows, 

 And only faint, weak stragglers still cling among the 

 boughs, 



'Tis sad to hear their faltering song, 



Thin echo of the past. 

 Still keeping up the family feud, though life be slipping fast: 

 Katy did! 

 Katy didn't! 

 Yes she did! 



W. TowifflENr). 



A COLORADO OUTING.-I. 



IN this country we never consider how hot it is until we 

 find a thermometer, then 86° F. becomes impressive, 

 and we get out of patience with the flies. The Colorado 

 fly is exasperating to a degree impossible in any other 

 quarter; the bald-headed man must be, I conjecture, at a 

 disadvantage when the house-fly is in pursuit of business 

 or pleasure; he has a way of clinging with his fore feet to 

 the bare scalp and dragging the other four feet over the 

 glistening surface, he does it in a leisurely world- without- 

 end sort of way, as if he had poisoned his toes with ivy 

 and they itched and he had struck witch hazel or other 

 antidote against irritation. But with the heat and flies, 

 there is always a "custom of an afternoon" for the south 

 wind to blow, and that gentle breeze makes life a luxury 

 if one keeps in the shade, its hypnotic influence after 

 lunch is irresistible, even with the racket in the busy 

 thoroughfare under the window — a thoroughfare where 

 we could kill antelope twenty-five years ago. 



Under this influence I look out and down into the dis- 

 play offered by a candy and cake bakery across the street, 

 not omitting an invitation to "ice cream" done in letters 

 of irregular sizes and original designs. I imagine the ice 

 cream to be watery and devoid of temptation while I 

 brush a fly joff my nose and recognize a cake in the 

 baker's window. The cake had white icing once, but the 

 flies have communed with the cupid that ornaments the 

 center and have left tokens of their adoration here and 

 there, and the sunlight has burned brown patches in the 

 surface, so that the wedding cake is no longer appetizing 

 — but it was a very gay cake at one time and gave 

 promise, just as a wedding cake does, of a more satis- 

 factory fruition. In its best estate and even later— the 

 wedding cake having been stibjected to a closer in- 

 spection than the present distance affords — I am advised, 

 of course, touching the fly specks as well as the texture 

 and shape of the cupid's wing— they, the wings, reminded 

 one somewhat of a trout's pectoral fins, and now that they 

 have been tarnished the color adds to the illusion. 



With the combination of the house flies, the cake and its 

 adornments, the lunch and the mercury, an easy chair 

 and the soft south wind stealing in at the open window, 

 you can imagine the result: I am momentarily startled 

 by a slight crash of something coming in contact with 

 the floor and faintly reahze that the briar root has slipped 

 from my fingers, but I also realize that it was quite 

 smoked out, and a lingering spark a mere possibility, 

 and that the pipe is accustomed to hard knocks— then I 

 have a faint notion of a wish to be out of town, notwith- 

 standing I believe Denver to be the most delightful city 

 on the continent. But for this I may be forgiven and 

 justified as one may be for loving the young men and 

 women whom he has watched growing from babyhood 

 to maturity, when one has a hand in the bringing up; 

 one does not of ten have the opportunity of seeing a village 

 of 2,500 develop into a city of 150,000— souls, I was going 

 of say, but I am skeptical in some things, and this same 

 doubt is at the bottom of the wish that moved me from 

 the window. 



The grip, better called a capacious leather satchel, with 

 a change of clothing, an empty creel swinging from my 

 shoulder and the rod case leaning against the back of the 

 seat in front, where I can keep my eye on it, a confused 

 notion of men, women and chiidren hovering about 

 phantom-like, and all strangers, except a shadowy im- 

 pression of Brother Byers reading a newspaper, inter- 

 mingle it would seem with the noise of the falling pipe. 

 The sweet savor of the south wind vanishes and the at- 

 mosphere is stuffy and smells of oil until the windows are 

 raised. There is the ringing of bells, the shuffling of feet, 

 the buzzing of strange voices, then every sound suddenly 

 ceases and I am moving. The sensation is pleasant and 

 the surroundings familiar for a little way: then there is 

 an impression of outlying shanties and here and there a 

 tall brick smoke stack not so familiar.- The shanties 

 are depressing, they denote poverty, the poverty that 

 haunts raih-oad tracks in the suburbs of cities, the poverty 

 that always comes in the company of rats. It is a queer 

 paradox that what we consider the main instrument of 

 progress always brings in its train poverty and rats— the 

 fact leads one to doubt the integrity of the progress, or 

 whether, indeed, it is progress at all. Presently the sur- 

 roundings grow familiar again, the south wind has found 

 me out and streams through the windows and the car, and 

 is freighted with sweetness as usual. It takes a little time 

 before I realize the freshness, because the suburbs are 

 elastic, and five miles an hour the lawful speed. Certainly 

 Denver is a city. 



Away to the right rise the plains to the foothills and 

 beyond are glimpses of the range, with patches of snow 

 lingering on the bosom of Mount Koaa. Only a little 

 while ago the fourteen miles stretch of country between 

 the Platte River and the foothills presented a green car- 



pet through the July days, imbroken by any evidences of 

 man's occupation; now there are fences and farm houses, 

 and fields of golden grain ripe for the harvest. But the 

 mountains show me their old-time landmarks and help to 

 keep me at home until the Platte Cafion is reached. The 

 river looks smaller than it used to, but get off the train 

 and down to the water line and it will require more than 

 the skill of the tyro to send the coachman successfully to 

 the opposite bank. Get into the current and vou will 

 recognize something of the old-time vigor. The "Platte is 

 not "played out" by any means, but the trout are not so 

 large or abundant as in that "little while ago." I dream- 

 ily recognize many a turn of the once beautiful river, 

 here and there a point of rocks or a mountain; but the 

 pools, the stiU reaches and the riffles have become demor- 

 alized, have changed places or disappeared. It is not the 

 old river, but I find enough of the oldness lingering 

 about it to remind me of the old love for it. Pine Grove, 

 as it is called— "Brown & Stewart's ranch" it was thirty 

 years ago, with a solitary log cabin— is quite a summer 

 resort, with all the airs of a pleasant village. Indeed, the 

 river for seventy miles or more of its way through the 

 hills to the lower canon is little else than a summer resort, 

 dotted with bits of houses, and made strange by the pres- 

 ence of broad-brimmed hats tied out of shape over rosy 

 cheeks; every face, it seems, is a smile — an out-of-doors 

 smile; there is a bewildering flash of bright colors, not 

 from the wild flowers; and now and again a bit of music, 

 as sweet as the note of a meadow lark, will come rippling 

 through the car window, giving no hint of style or tuber- 

 cles. - A little further on I recognize a pile of granite 

 reaching down to the edge of the stream: there was" a pool 

 just at the base, but now there is a riffle in its place, I 

 remember the pool and the trout I have lifted out of it, 

 and I remember also falling into it, owing to the treach- 

 ery of a dead limb on a pine log. I remember apostro- 

 phizing the log and the low temperature of the water 

 until the latter choked me off — the pure crystal was not 

 shocked at my exclamations, but took me into its em- 

 brace laughingly, as if it had been on the watch for a 

 lover whom it understood to be a little reluctant. 



Further on it was Schlats, and it is Schlats now, with a 

 difference in the association only. Now it is civilized and 

 a resort, but in the early days it was a haven between 

 Tarryall, Buckskin Joe and adjacent mining camps and 

 Denver, in which one was giad to find shelter, especially 

 of a winter's night. A hint of the freighters and the 

 miners would tax the nerves and the delicacy of the pres- 

 ent habitues. At the foot of Kenosha Hill I siuple out 

 fi-om among the phantoms in the car a man with a bilious 

 complexion and a Roman nose— he is chewing gum ; in 

 his company is a sallow woman, his wife no doubt, she is 

 chewing gum, and in the company of both and exercis- 

 ing grandmotherly supervision is another woman, with 

 gray hair and gold glasses, and she also is chewing gum; 

 there is a little boy with a long slender neck, pale face 

 and brown eyes— he is chewing gum. These people have 

 no business in a railroad car; they should be on foot, or on 

 horseback, or bowling over corduroy in a lumber wagon, 

 or in any situation where they could exercise other than 

 their jaws and shake off the dyspepsia. But they won't, 

 they will die in ignorance of the sweet smell of "mother 

 eartfi and the fragrance of pine boughs in their bedcham- 

 bers. No doubt they believe that a night und er the fretted 

 roof with only a blanket between their city-nurtured 

 bodies and the gorgeous canopy would be the death of 

 them. They prefer dying of gum by rail. At Como, in 

 the South Park, where an excellent dinner is served, they 

 pecked, ate oatmeal and drank water. I wanted the boy-^ 

 in him I saw a possibility, notwithstanding he sat with 

 his hands in his lap and was not tempted by pie or 

 orange. 



By and by the road winds up the Breckenridge Pass. 

 Down below a thousand feet or more, men, looking like 

 midgets, are working in Tarryall Gulch, the oldeat placer 

 camp in the State. It has given up its millions of yellow 

 metal and still pays. Salver Heels, looming up "on the 

 left, has a bit of cloud for a cap this afternoon, and be- 

 yond is the Mount of Three Waters. We are on the back- 

 bone of the continent, and may look down into the valley 

 of the Blue River and see Breckenridge, another old min- 

 ing camp that has added its share to the millions of the 

 world's wealth. From this point of view the town seems 

 very quiet nestled among the towering hills. But all is 

 not peace there, especially o' Saturday nights, yet it is 

 milder than in its younger days. Down the Blue a dozen 

 miles, still by rail, and Tom Hamilton takes one in charge 

 at Dillon, provides a good supper and bed where I am 

 dreaming double. Did you never di-eam double ? It is a 

 novel psychological experience, sometimes ludicrous and 

 again ha.rrowing. I am in a chair in my office in Denver 

 and also in bed at Tom Hamilton's, while the scent of the 

 pines floats in at the window and the music of Ten Mile 

 invites me to linger. I can feel myself under the blank- 

 ets and realize the difference in the temperature, and 

 while I draw the covering a little closer around my neck 

 confess to myself that there is good fronting in Ten Mile. 



"Yes, there is good trouting in Ten Mile," and Brother 

 Byers, my briar root in his hand, stands over me in my 

 office chair a long way from Tom Hamilton's. I am irri- 

 tated at the sudden transition and find something exas- 

 perating in the broad smile which my disturber bestows 

 upon me. 



"Pshaw! why did you awaken me?" 



"To let you know that I agreed with you, as I always 

 do. You said there was good trouting in Ten Mile," 



"But you don't always agree with me. Here I was on 

 the way to Black Lake and had got as far as Tom Hamil- 

 ton's, then you must come around and wake me up." 



"We'll start for Black Lake to-morrow morning — ^the 

 train leaves at eight o'clock." 



"I shall not go on it. I shall start from Dillon." 



"And miss the grand scenery along the Platte, over 

 Kenosha Hill, through the South Park and over Brecken- 

 ridge Pass, dow-n- ■' 



"Hold up, do— I have been through it all during the 

 last fifteen minutes and I shall start from Dillon." 



There is a United States mail from Dillon down the 

 Blue; it goes in a spring wagon drawn bv a thin team, 

 and takes the grade of the Union Pacific, which makes a 

 splendid road. The post offices along the way are not 

 maintained by the government, but every ranchman has 

 his own. The place of deposit may consist of a box, an 

 old boot, or, as in one instance, a decayed hand-satchel 

 stuck on a pole by the road side. No one would think of 

 disturbing the contents any sooner than of despoiling the 

 iron boxes on the lamp posts in town. One of these re- 



positories consisted of a wooden box with a shelf and a 

 canvas cover to protect the contents from the weather. 

 In this particular post office a bluebird had made her nest 

 and was rearing her young — two little innocents mostly 

 head and eyes and exhibiting a lack of feathers. They 

 expressed no trepidation at his daily visits, the driver said, 

 and that spoke well for the owners of the post office and 

 the carrier, who is an ex-sheriff and accustomed to the 

 use of the revolver. 



The road has familiar landmarks as we proceed. Big 

 Ute Mountain is one. Brother Byers and I discuss it. 

 We came into the Blue Valley from Hot Sulphur Springs, 

 up William's Fork and over the pass by as Indian trail 

 at the northerly end of Big Ute Mountain. But that was 

 fom-teen years ago, we were there on horseback, with a 

 frying-pan and two tin cups, together with three days' 

 rations of coffee and sugar, a loaf of bread each, and A 

 little salt. Our destination was the same then as now, 

 but the trail is a thing of the past. We reached the 

 mouth of Black Lake Creek about noon, and found a 

 carriage in waiting to take us to the summer retreat of 

 our genial U. S. Marshal, A. H. Jones, who is now the 

 owner of the lake, and at whose table, in company with 

 him and his charming family, we took lunch — what a 

 contrast to the experience of fourteen years ago, under a 

 poncho 1 



Our host has a beautiful little steam yacht and boats 

 galore, and the old log rafts went out with his advent. 

 The lake is as charming as ever and as full of trout; the 

 log cottage on the point near the outlet adds to the at- 

 tractiveness and seems home-like, without intruding upon 

 the old-time romance. Catching trout from a steam 

 yacht affords a luxury undreamed of in the rafting days, 

 the amusement accommodates itself to the later stiffness 

 in the knees and the falling off of activity developed in 

 fourteen years. The sound of a tiny steam whistle on 

 Black Lake, under the shadows of the huge heaven- 

 kissing granite of the Gore Range, while we skirt the 

 pine-covered foot of Mount Powell at ten miles an hour! 

 It seems preposterous at first, but then the luxury of it! 

 It is like the sudden transition from the plum-bush pole 

 to the fBsthetic bamboo, and I convert the change further 

 into a delicate tribute to the aristocratic denizens of the 

 crystal waters, who are entitled to the best that skill and 

 good taste can sfford. There is an exquisite harmony in 

 the combination not often achieved, and it should be ac- 

 cepted and treated as a sort of holiday in the hoUdayp, 

 the Sabbath, as is were, of the outing. 



Toward evening our host turned us into a yawl and 

 took ua in tow, and we tied up at the inlet and caught 

 trout for an hour or more* We had a fish well, of 

 course, and there was no fear of waste. The lake has 

 been stocked and restocked, not only with natives and 

 rainbow, but with the Eastern brook 'trout, and they ara 

 all doing well. This afternoon, however, the natives are 

 the more active. A half-pound young gentleman shows 

 himself on the surface at the prick of the Sproat; he 

 shakes himself savagely, and not finding any relief, 

 darts quickly into the "swift current of the inlet, but 

 circles back, not being given any line, leaps half out of 

 the water, and repeats his efforts to tear himself from 

 the fatal restraint. His efforts are in Vain, however, and 

 he is lifted into the boat, still struggling. From the 

 beginning to the end there has been no cessation oi 

 defiance; he comes intrepidly into the sunlight while he 

 advises one of his mettle and fights it out on that line as 

 if fighting were his mission in life. Again there is a rise 

 to the coachman and a strike, just on the edge of the 

 current, and the ripple prevents one seeing the quarry; 

 but a new experience is in store for the angler who has 

 never caught any save the Rocky Mountain trout. This 

 stranger disappears, but the light silk line cuts the 

 water with a force approaching to viciousness. Hither 

 and yon it sweeps, and the bamboo maintains a steady, 

 gi'aceful curve, and soon proves too much for this gentle- 

 man, who prefers to avail himself of the full advantage 

 of his battle ground. Your Eastern brook trout is finally 

 brought to the surface, and with all due respect and ten- 

 derness relieved from the hook and consigned to the well. 

 A strong fighter, but he lacks the dash and brilliancy of 

 evolution common to his black-spotted congener. And 

 for this, I presume, I shall be trampled upon by both feet 

 of the votary of the Salmo fontinalis. But understand 

 me, I draw a distinction simply between their methods, 

 not between their beauty or their courage; each is per- 

 fection. 



While we have been amusing ourselves a black cloud 

 has been climbing to the summit of Mount Powell's mate 

 and shows itself over the peak; the shrill notes of the 

 yacht's whistle breaks the silence, and our host is steam- 

 ing for the inlet at the little craft's best speed to rescue 

 us from the impending shower. But we do not escape. 

 The big drops strike us and then multiply, and Brother 

 Bjers takes his medicine standing and with a smile on 

 his face that has no malice in it. He would not have 

 forfeited the hour's pleasure for a triple baptism. 



That night all slept under the shingles with the patter of 

 rain to soothe us during our infrequent moments of wake- 

 fulness. I could not but contrast the comfort with lying 

 out on the banks of the Blue with nothing over me but 

 the canopy and the rain beating down, and thought that 

 there is much to commend in our civilization, and that 

 such an obliging host and friend is a rare jewel; and I 

 was also inclined to believe that every man, woman and 

 child in Denver had a soul. L. B. Frajjce. 



"That reminds me." 



A NUMBER of years ago, while visiting in a smaU 

 town in central Missouri, I witnessed the return of 

 a party who had been down on theGravois River fishing, 

 bringing home several hundred pounds of fish. Aa soon 

 as they arrived word was sent for all to come to the 

 blacksmith shop and get a mess of fish free. A St. Louis 

 drummer, who had been trying to sell the storekeeper a 

 bill of goods, observing so many women and children go 

 to the wagon and take what fish they wanted without 

 paying for them, walked up to the wagon and inquired of 

 the boy who was holding the horses, "Are these fish 

 gratuitous?" "No," said the boy, "they are pretty much 

 all buffalo and catfish." ' Jack. 



Columbus, Ohio, 



