As we speed again,
the yellow granite in the sunshine, with natural spires, minarets,
castellated perches far aloft--then long stretches of straight-upright
palisades, rhinoceros color--then gamboge and tinted chromos. Ever
the best of my pleasures the cool-fresh Colorado atmosphere, yet
sufficiently warm. Signs of man's restless advent and pioneerage,
hard as Nature's face is--deserted dug-outs by dozens in the
side-hills--the scantling-hut, the telegraph-pole, the smoke of some
impromptu chimney or outdoor fire--at intervals little settlements of
log-houses, or parties of surveyors or telegraph builders, with their
comfortable tents. Once, a canvas office where you could send a
message by electricity anywhere around the world! Yes, pronounc'd
signs of the man of latest dates, dauntlessly grappling with these
grisliest shows of the old kosmos. At several places steam saw-mills,
with their piles of logs and boards, and the pipes puffing.
Occasionally Platte canon expanding into a grassy flat of a few acres.
At one such place, toward the end, where we stop, and I get out to
stretch my legs, as I look skyward, or rather mountain-topward, a huge
hawk or eagle (a rare sight here) is idly soaring, balancing along the
ether, now sinking low and coming quite near, and then up again in
stately-languid circles--then higher, higher, slanting to the north,
and gradually out of sight.
AMERICA'S BACK-BONE
I jot these lines literally at Kenosha summit, where we return,
afternoon, and take a long rest, 10,000 feet above sea-level.
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