FEASTS IN THE FOREST. 77 
fried potatoes, tin plates of crispy mountain trout 
or delicious venison, and biscuit hot from the bake 
kettle, bottles of pickles and cans of fruit, while 
its' circumference is edged with bright tin plates, 
cups, spoons and steel knives and forks. 
He needs no second invitation to help himself 
to a seat on an inverted pail, folded blanket, 
camp-stool or stone — whichever is most conve- 
nient — and assist in disposing of the tempting 
repast. If he has eyes for anything beside the 
food, the dining-room in its size and magnificent 
appointments — its ceiling, Colorado’s matchless 
sky— its walls, a succession of landscapes, which 
Bierstadt can never equal— is all that could be 
desired, to gratify the most aesthetic taste. 
Among the excursions of that season was one 
to the Hot Sulphur Springs, in Middle Park. 
Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell and their child, Mabel, a 
girl of nine years, joined it. 
They were provided with a pack-horse, carrying 
a small tent and outfit — as above described — of 
their own, which they expected, as usual in such 
cases, to share with the company. But, after 
going some ten miles into the mountains, they 
were overtaken by a messenger, and Mr. Max- 
well was called back to appear as a witness in 
court The rest of the party must go on. He 
hoped to return and overtake them. 
They were in the midst of an abundance of 
