Dewan
mn —
————.—
OUT ON THE SEA.
Night, and the wonder of starlight waking
High in the darkening dome!
Night, and the thunder of waters breaking
White on the prow in foam !
Night, and the music of shrouds and Spars,
Harp of the wind, whose strings
Sing, sweetheart, to the listening stars
Wild, ineffable things !
Far astern in the distance, lining
All the horizon’s rim,
White are the harbor beacons shining,
Dimmer, and yet more dim;
Anda the ship speeds forth on her eastward quest,
And the voice of the passing wind
Speaks, sweetheart, of the vanishing west
That I leave to-night behind.
Dear, deep eyes, of all eyes most tender,
Heart, of all hearts most true,
All of the blue night's widening splendor
Hallows its lips with you;
Yours is the name that the waters call,
Yours is the name the stars
Down from the infinite heights let fall
To echo among the spars.
Love in the years to come hereafter,
Gold, as shall chance, or gray,
Still shall the sound of your lightsome. laughter
Come at the close of day,
Come to recall what I leave behind—
Love and the west, and you,
Dear, deep eyes, of all eyes most kind,
Heart, of all hearts most true !— Guy Wetmore
Carryl, in Harper's Bazar.
A BELATED FUNERAL.
The minister looked up as the gate click-
ed. He was shoveling the snow from his
walk, and seratching the lumps of ice with
his shovel from the two narrow boards
which ran from the front door to the street.
‘Could you take a funeral to-morrow?’
"asked Miss Caldwell, pausing before him.
The minister pushed back his warm cap
and looked up.
‘‘A funeral?” he repeated, bewildered.
**Who is dead?’
“Amos Dyer,” replied Miss Caldwell,
grimly.
“Amos Dyer! Amos—Well, Sarah, I
guess you’d better come in and tell me a
little more,” said the old man, leading the
way.
The minister’s study had an outside door,
easy of access for small children; easy, too,
for those in trouble to slip into from the
darkness without being seen by curious
eyes. There was no need of locking the
door; no one wanted the doctor’s com-
mentaries, nor the shabby horse-hair-cov-
ered sofa, nor the old sleepy-hollow chair
by the stove.
The minister stood his shovel in the cor-
ner of the porch and opened the door. Miss
Caldwell sat down in the sofa corner and
took off her shawl.
“Amos Dyer, I said,”” she began. ‘I
know it’s a little late in the day, but still
a funeral’s a funeral, and he never had
one.”
“No,” said Dr. Marlow; “‘that is true
enough. But he has been buried a year,
and I see no reason why he should have
one now. To open up that story—"’
‘Certainly. That's what I say. But
he has to have a funeral, nevertheless. I’11
tell you all about it if you will listen a few
minutes.
“I’ve been down to New York for a
week, visiting Lucy. I always go about
this time, and we go around together and
look at the shop windows and buy little
things for Jack’s stocking—"’
‘‘How is Jack, by-the-way?”’ interrupted
the minister. ‘‘I heard he wasn’t well.”
“Just yon wait, Dr. Marlow; I'm com-
ing to that,’’ said Miss Cald well, portent-
ously. ‘‘Well, as I was saying, we have
a good time together once a year, Lucy and
I, just as if we were girls again.
‘But the minute I got there this year I
saw something was the matter. Lucy
looked worried, and Jack was just miser-
able—just miserable, Dr. Marlow! as pale
and thin! But Ididn’t say a word at first.
I looked all around their little flat—they’ve
just moved to a new one—and said how
cozy it was. And we had oysters for sup-
per, and Jack didn’t want any, though I
knew they didn’t often have them. But
still I didn’t ask a question. And at last
Jack went to bed, and when he kissed me
and I saw his eyes look so sad, I just want-
ed to cry. Then Lucy came and sat down
by me and said:
‘‘Sarah, I never needed you more. Do
you see how ill Jack looks?’
Miss Caldwell paused and searched for
her handkerchief. :
“I just love that child,” she apologized,
wiping her eyes. ‘Well, I tried to pooh-
pooh it; said he was growing fast, and was
thin, and all that, because I saw she was
so distressed, but she wouldn’t listen.
‘‘Sarah,” said she, just as solemn—
‘Sarah, that boy is grieving himself to
death hecause his father had no funeral?’
“Nonsense!” said I. ‘He doesn’t even
remember his father!’
‘‘Perhaps if he remembered more ahout
him he would not be sorry he was buried
quietly,’ said Lucy.
‘Then she went on to tell that Jack has
a strong remembrance of the old home up
here. He knows just how the house looks,
and draws dozens of pictures of it, with
the big white pillars and the elms in front.
He remembers how his father held him on
his pony and let him ride up and down.
And he remembers how in summer the peo-
ple of the village used to come and have
tea on the lawn, and how he used to march
up and down like a little prince and pick
flowers for them.’
‘So he did,” murmured Dr. Marlow,
stirring the fire—‘‘so he did.”
‘‘And then he forgets,” said Miss Cald-
well, her voice trembling. “Thank Hea-
ven! he forgets. He knows nothing of the
dreadful climax of it all. Of how Amos
Dyer was found out to be a mere swindler.
Of the bank-failure, and all the poor de-
positors who had trusted him besieging
that house and shrieking for their money.
Will you ever, ever forget that night, doc-
tor?"
The minister shook his gray head.
‘‘It was a dark time for Norwood,” he
said, simply. :
‘‘And there it all ended. The balloon
collapsed. Amos disappeared in the dark-
ness, without a word of good-bye even to
Mary. And poor Lucy’s money was lost
too, so she and Mary took the boy and
went to the city and went to worky and in
a year she died.”’
“Poor thing!’ whispered the dcctor to
himself. He had baptized her, watched
her grow from babyhood to womanhood ;
married her, with some misgivings, to the
brilliant stranger who was dazzling the
quiet village ‘with his splendor. He had
baptized her baby boy, too, and named him
for his mother’s father, the good old Judge,
whom everybody honored; and that day he
had seen the change in Mary’s face. The
joy of life was over, except as she could
find it in her baby.
And he had buried her. How significant
had the words of the prayer sounded: ‘It
hath pleased Almighty God of His great
mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our
dear sister—’
Yes, he could not sorrow when Mary
died. It was a mercy.
‘““Well,”” broke in Miss Caldwell, “when
her sister was gone poor Lucy was alone.
She had a hard struggle, as you know well
enough, doctor. It would have been
harder but for you. But they managed
somehow to live, and Jack wassuch a com-
fort? But when night came and Lucy put
her work away, he would cuddle down in
her lap every single evening and say, ‘Tell
me about my father.” And what could
she do? .
“‘Could she say, ‘Your father was a thief’?
No. She said she tried at first to put him
off, but it was no use, and at last she just
yielded—she says she knows it was weak—
and told of every good or kind thing she
could think of. Amos loved the praise of
men, you know that, doctor, and he did
give his fruit and flowers to the sick, and
sent his carriage for the old ladies to ride
in, and gave money to the poor. Oh yes,
I'll give the devil his due! Cheap kind-
nesses that did not hurt him and that
brought applause were delightful to him.”
‘Perhaps, Sarah,’’ began Dr. Marlow,
charitably, ‘‘we do not do him justice.
Possibly if we knew all—?"’
‘Don’t, doctor!”’ she interrupted, almost
fiercely. ‘‘I can’t hear you excuse him.
Swindling wasn’t his worst sin. He was
bad all through. His evil deeds rose up
wherever his foot stepped. Norwood peo-
ple weren’t the only sufferers. But there!
you know it as well as I do.
*‘But Lucy never told Jack a word of all
that. And when he would say, ‘Where is
my father now?’ she would tell him he
had lost his money and was somewhere out
West earning more. And that dear child
would say.
“When I'm a man I'll goand help him!
‘Little he realized how his father cared
nothing for his own child, whether he lived
or died.
‘‘And then Amos was killed—stabbed in
a quarrel over cards among desperadoes in
Mexico. It was a natural enough ending
for him. Lucy wanted him buried there,
of course. There was no reason why his
body should be brought here. I never un-
derstood why it was brought myself.’’
“I had it brought,’’ said the minister,
sternly. ‘‘It was not fitting that the man
whom I had married to Mary, whose child
I had named, should lie like a dog in the
sand where he died. Mary would not have
wished it. She forgave him, poor child! I
ought to know, for I was there when she
died. Lucy cannot forgive. She feels that
he killed her sister and impoverished Jack;
but Mary—Mary forgave.’’
‘Well, anyhow, he was buried upon the
hill,”’ continued Miss Caldwell, ‘‘and no
one knew when but the sexton and you,
doctor. Even the townspeople did not find
out for weeks. It was cleverly managed,
and I dare say it was just as well, for there
are some poor folks in this place who would
not want him near them, living or dead.
‘However, Lucy had to tell Jack his
father was dead. She said she could not
help being relieved to think he would
gradually forget him. Her conscience had
always troubled her for letting the little
boy believe his father was a good man.
But it was weeks before Jack got over the
shock. You know how dreadfully sensitive
and tender-hearted he is, and he has been
so much with grown people he isn’t a bit
like an ordinary child. Suddenly one day
he asked, ‘Aunt Lucy, where is my father
buried?’ :
‘‘And when she said, ‘In Norwood, by
your mother,’ he just fixed those big eyes
on her and said, as if he were a man, ‘And
why did we not go to the funeral?’
*‘And she didn’t know what to say. She
felt like a criminal. And ever since that
boy has just mourned and mourned.
‘His dear noble father, so handsome, so
grand, so good and kind to everybody! To
have no funeral, when even the poor peo-
ple in the city have a beautiful hearse and
carriages! And his little heart is just hard
to his aunt, and to you, and to all the peo-
ple up here; and he is grieving himself to
death—Mary’s boy—and I say it’s a shame!’
‘It is a shame,’’ said the minister, has-
tily. ‘‘The child’s whole nature may be
hopelessly warped. Something must be
done.”
‘‘That’s what I said,’’ replied Miss Cald-
well. “But nobody must know, or we
may have a scene. I told Lucy I would
talk to you, and I knew you would speak
just as you have spoken; and so she is com-
ing up to-morrow morning with Jack, and
I’m to meet her, and we will goto the
cemetery, and meet you there if you say
so.”’
She pinned her shawl together and rose
to go.
‘‘You’re a good woman, Sarah,”’ said the
minister, laying his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m not good. Don’t you dare to say
80,” she replied, huskily. “I just hate
Amos Dyer, if he is dead, and I can’t help
it. But he shall have a funeral if it will
cure Mary’s boy.”’ And she went out.
From the gate to the Judge’s lot a path
had been dug, and the shining blocks of
snow were piled high on either side. Amos
Dyer’s grave was hidden by green branches
and a few bright geraniums picked from
the minister's window box. It was all
very peaceful there in the early morning.
The quiet and purity were in strange con-
trast to the life of turmoil whose tragic
ending was to be commemorated.
Presently the little funeral party came
up the walk. Dr. Marlow led Jack by the
hand, and the two women followed. They
stood about the grave, and the minister
opened his Bible.
“Though I speak with the tongues of
men and of angels, and have not charity
—’the words of the beautiful chapter
might have been a fitting eulogy for a good
man. To the son who believed his father
to be all that was best they werea just
tribute of praise, while to the two women
who condemned they sounded a reproach.
The minister closed the book and began
to speak.
“We might say many kind things to-day
of him who lies here. For several years
he lived among us, and numbers of his old
neighbors could tell of generous things he
did for them. There were long, beautiful
summer days when they walked in his gar-
den among his flowers. There were sick
children whose lives were brightened hy
gifts of fruit from his own vines and trees.
There were women, old and feeble, who
had restful drives in his carriage. As his
pastor, I often asked him for money to re-
lieve suffering, and I was never refused.
In every life there is much to be forgiven.
We may not speak of that to-day. We
see through a glass darkly. Let us rather
remember that charity which thinketh no
evil,”
The minister paused. It was hard to
speak, with Jack’s earnest, loyal eyes fixed
on him. ;
“May we all remember to be kind. May
this dear hoy grow up to be honorable,
truthful, upright in word and deed. May
the poor and sorrowing find“in _him a lov-
ing, helpful friend. So shall his life be
blessed, and he shall leave behind him ‘an’
honored name! Let us pray.”
The minister’s voice faltered as he asked
for tenderness of heart, for the charity that
never faileth, for| earnestness of purpose,
and for strength for noble living. And
then he pronounced the benediction.
But Jack’s face was troubled.
‘They always sing at funerals,” he
whispered to his aunt.
‘You sing, Jack,’’ said Dr. Marlow.
Jack paused to think for a moment, and
then his clear voice began,
“There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar,
For our Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling-place there.”
Tears had never failen on Amos Dyer’s
grave. On the head below had been heap-
ed curses by those whose lives he had
wrecked. Deceit and shame had been the
record he had left behind him. But as the
listeners heard the voice of his little son
who bore a dishonored name, their tears
fell fast.
That night Jack hung up his stocking,
and gleefully made his aunt hang up hers.
He was a happy boy again; a great load
had been lifted from his heart. His father
had had a funeral!
“It wasn’t a very grand one, was it?”
he said, as he was tucked up in bed. ‘‘So
few there! I suppose they did not know
about it, we decided in such a hurry to
have it to-day. Of course, if they had
known, all the people would have come.
But it was a very nice funeral, anyhow. I
thought what the minister said was beauti-
tul, of how good father was, and how
everybody loved him. I mean to grow up
to be just that kind of a man, and at my
funeral perhaps some one will talk just
that way about me!’’
Lucy could not sleep. She sat long at
the window, looking up at the stars and
thinking of the past—of her sister killed
in her sweet youth by grief and shame ; of
the boy who must grow up motherless and
fatherless; of her own impoverished. lonely
life.
Forgive the man who had wrought all
this evil change?
Just at that moment the midnight bells
rung out. Over the roofs of happy homes
their deep sweet tones sounded. She open-
ed the window and stood listening. A
She sank on her knees and the past was
forgotten. : .
*‘Peace on earth, good will to men”
sounded in.her heart, and Christmas had
come.—By Caroline B. Burrell, in Har-
per’s Bazar.
Meant What He Said.
‘‘Yes,’” said Mr. Jones, when a certain
girl’s name had been mentioned, ‘I know
her to speak to, but not by sight.”’
‘‘You mean,’’ cut in the prompt correc-
tor—‘‘you mean that you know her by
sight, but not to speak to.’’
“Do I?” asked Mr. Jones anxiously.
‘‘Of course you do. You have seen her
so often that you know who she is, but
have never been introduced to her. Isn’t
that it?’
*No, that isn’t it. I never saw her at
all to know her, but I speak to her nearly
every day.”
‘““How can that be?’
‘‘She is the telephone girl at central.
——Messrs. George S. Good & Co., of
Lock Haven, railroad builders and general
contractors, have been awarded another big
contract in New Mexico. The contract is
for building ninety-three miles of railroad
from a place called Alomagordo to the coal
fields in that country. Messrs. Good &
Co. have just completed the construction
of a long stretch of railroad in New
Mexico, and will commence operations on
the new work at once.
—The feeding of salt to dairy cows should
be done regularly and not occasionally. It
may be given as a seasoning to the ground
grain or placed where they can have access
to it. Cows have heen known to fall off
one tenth in flow of milk when deprived of
salt. There are some who do not believe
in the use of salt by allowing stock to help
themselves, but it is beneficial to season
their food with in which makes their food
more palatable and better relished.
Carnegie’s Latest Offer.
Andrew Carnegie has offered to give $250,-
000 to erect a building for a public library
for Washington provided Congress would
furnish a site and provide a suitable main-
tenance, not less than $10,000 per annum.
Steps will be taken at once to secure the
needed legislation.
——Dentisi—‘‘I see that I shall have to
kill the nerve.”” Patient—*‘‘For heaven’s
sake don’t! It would ruin me in my busi-
ness. I'm a life insurance agent.’’
distant hymn floated in:
Hark the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King.
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled.
THE MOUNTAINS AND PLAINS
OF COLORADO.
Out of Denver into a Great Mining and Agricultural State—Loveland, Clear
Creek Canon and Ward, the new Mining Camp.
The lapse of several months since these stories of travel in Colorado were begun
in the WATCHMAN has probably had the effect of making some of our readers forget
about them entirely, while others might recall the first two but do not remember the
conditions under which they were written. A word of explanation will, therefore,
not be amiss before the third one is published.
‘The Mountains and Plains of Colorado’’ was begun in the issue of Oct. 1st,
1898, immediately upon my return from that State where I had spent a month in
travel with the National Editorial Association, which held its thirteenth annual con-
vention in the city of Denver during the week of September 5th to 9th. In the first
story I undertook to convey impressions of a journey from Chicago to Denver, in-
cluding stops at the trans-Mississippi Exposition at Omaha, Nebraska, and at Lincoln.
The second dwelt exclusively with the dream city of Denver and now I invite those
who found anything of interest in the portions already published to take up the long
journey of that great State with me.
Undoubtly it would have been better to have continued the stories, weekly, after
they were once begun, but the struggle for reform in the government of Penn-
sylvania last fall made such inroads on our space that there was nothing left for me to
do but withhold this until the present time.
l I i
Having concluded our work in the convention at Denver the editorial party once
more rendezvoused at the long line of Pullmans that stood waiting for us in the Den-
ver yards and prepared for a tour that was to lay before us the varied industries and
resources of a great and undeveloped State. It was Saturday morning, September
10th, when the train pulled out on the first excursion we made. If you will recall
the oppressively hot wave that swept over the country the latter part of last August
and was still roasting away at humanity when the first days of September were usher-
ed in you will appreciate the discomfort we all felt about the time we were leaving
Denver because the mercury had suddenly become frightened at being so high up in
the world and taken a decided tumble downwards. In truth it was snowing - when
we started for Loveland The snow, in itself, did not alarm me in the least, but I had
expected to see it only capping the high peaks of the Rockies at that season of the
year, and felt that if I got much further away from home with the straw hat I was wear-
ing one of those ‘‘Rocky-mountain canaries” would sing out the last call for such
head-gear and T would be left hatless, while the icy-breezes tousled the fringe that has
become so scanty that I part it with my fingers.
Loveland is 60 miles North-east of Denver. It isin Larimer county and has a
population of 698 people, according to the most recent census taken. We had heen
invited down there to enjoy the annual street fair and corn-roast with the people of
that place who had postponed their great yearly fete in order to have us share in the
pleasures of it. The idea of starting for a street fair and corn-roast in a snow squall
wasn’t very enticing, to say the least, but the unpropitious weather wasn’t nearly as
uncomfortable to us as it was disappointing to the people of Loveland who had gone
to so much trouble to make their show a success. I dignify it by the use of the word
show because that is exactly what it was.
When we reached the town the train was run right up to the lots on which the
fair was being conducted. And if I hadn’t been afraid of my face freezing with the
“idiotic expression,” by which I unfortunately signify delight, on it I would have
laughed aloud at the sight that met my gaze as I stepped off the car. There was a
great circus tent pitched on the corner of the lot and a crowd of people surrounding
the entrance, as if a big show was about to commence. The promoters of Loveland’$
interests at once began the work of distributing dinner tickets among our party and
the way we were hustled into that tent reminded me very much of the way cattle
are jumped from one pen into another in the Chicago stock yards. Once inside we
found the place lined with long tables and were ordered to fall too. The clatter of
knives and forks had scarcely begun on the little wooden plates ere a real, genuine
country band struck-up “Ata Georgia Camp-meeting.” If I hadn’t made up my
mind not to use any slang while away on that trip I am sure I would have remarked
to my companion at table: *‘Now wouldn't that scald you.”” It was one of those
cornet-hass drum bands, but it was up-to-date with its music and every member of
the party began to sway and bob to the tune, so that by the time it was finished you
might have imagined yourself looking at a great tentful of marionettes, all worked by
the magic of the composer of that devilish two-step.
The dinner was fine and it was not an unnatural wonderment that was expressed
on many of those faces as to how such a little place could manage such an affair. I
know that if I live to be a thousand years old I'll never forget the taste of the coffee
at a Loveland corn-roast. I ate corn until I felt like one of the great cribs that I bad
seen with its slats bulging out away back in Nebraska and when the dinner was at an
end every member of the party was presented with a corn stalk cane and extended the
freedom of the town. The first place I looked up was the cuisine in which that corn
and coffee had been prepared. It was located at the rear of the big tent and
proved really a novel sight. In order to prepare a roasting bed for the corn two ditches:
probably 200ft in length, had been dug the day before. They looked like enlarged
celery trenches. They were piled full of hard wood which was lighted and burned to
ashes. Into these hot ashes the green corn was thrown, just as it had been pulled from
the stalk—with the husk on—and allowed to lie there until roasted. Then it ‘was
fished out with rakes and pitched into a great wooden hopper, where it was kept warm
until wanted for eating. The coffee was made in a kettle made of a section of old
metal smoke stack.
The corn roasting pits were very popular during the day, for there you would see
hundreds of people lined up along the hot coals trying to keep warm. A Loveland
corn-roast and street fair is of annual occurrence and is an enterprise peculiarly west-
ern. Loveland is only a little place, but she is ambitious to be larger, and when “he
Larimer county fair began to attract great crowds of people to Ft. Collins, which 9
only 14 miles away, Loveland thought of this counter attraction. Accordingly, every
year, the corn-roast is held and all the farmers for miles around bring in their big
pumpkins, corn and other freak growths. The exhibit is made on long tables about
the grounds and everything is free as air. It attracts great crowds of people, always.
At dinner time they assemble at tables and are served with corn, coffee and melon,
The day we visited Loveland they had about 250 bushels of green corn roasted.
In looking around the town I found every indication of energy. The buildings
were substantial, the town well'planned and the people hopeful. Loveland is an agri-
cultural centre. Though Larimer county has mining interests in its mountain areas
the portion we were visiting that day was out on the plains and there farming and
stock raising is almost exclusive. Loveland being the second town of importance in
the county much of the country trade reaches the markets through that channel.
The soil is rich and loamy, yields prolifically and things only stop growing when they
get tired. There isn’t much wheat grown in that section. You would be surprised
to know how small the amount is. The principal crops are alfalfa, corn, fruit, mel-
ons and sugar beets. This latter product is fast jumping into favor in Colorado, for
the farmers are making enormous profits out of its cultivation.
Loveland is a new town and, like every other new place, is full of possibilities.
It is a good town, too. There is only oue licensed place there and a diligent search
of every store failed to find a poker chip forsale. Whether or not they were hiding
them because the editors were in town I am not prepared to say.
An 4 o'clock we bade farewell to our hospitable friends and started on the return
trip to Denver going by way of Ft. Collins and Greely. I was so cold that I didn’t
have the courage to look out into the snowy weather, so can’t tell you anything about
the country we traversed. I found out afterwards that it was just like all other Colo-
rado farm land, which will be referred to later.
I I ll I i
Instead of going to church on Sunday, as a well regulated Sunday school teacher
probably ought to have done, I made up my mind to go on the regular excursion
around the wonderful Georgetown loop, which is said to be one of the greatest engi-
neering feats in the world. Accordingly I took the Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf
narrow gauge train on Sunday morning and started away. It was cold enough to
make fires in the cars necessary and I must say that there was a pretty blue looking
party of excursionists aboard. I mentioned having taken the narrow gauge train be-
cause nearly all the roads running into Denver from the mountains have both narrow
and broad gauge systems. They have three rails on their tracks, so that standard
guage trains are run between points on the plains, but in the mountains the Darrow
gauge is resorted to, because the curves are too sharp for large carsand in many places
the side walls of the great canons would scrape the paint off wider ones.
We ran over a fine plain from Denver, due west to Golden, a distance of 15 miles.
Passing through considerable farm land that was everywhere corrugated with irriga-
tion ditches. Golden islocated at the mouth of Clear Creek canon and is right at the
base of the Rockies. As we made a stop of but several minutes I had no time to find
out anything more about the town than that it has a population of 2,383 and an al-
titude of 5,655 ft. Built as it is on the mountain slope you can see every building in
it from the car windows. Two structures impressed me as being important ones and
upon inquiry I found out that one of them was the Colorado School of Mines and the
other was Koor's brewery. The train started before I had a chance to find out
whether Koor’s beer was as fine as the building looked and before I knew it the unus-
ual rattle of the cars and the laboring puffs of the little engine called attention to the
fact that we were in the canon. It was just like entering a tunnel, except there was
no roof on it. Clear Creek river comes rushing out of what appears to be a great crev-
ice in the mighty wall of rock. The railroad has been built along the wall up the en-
tire course of the river;'some places hanging out over the water; at others winding
under the ledges of masses of over towering rocks. The river is about half the size of
Spring creek but the fall is so great as to make it more a succession of mountain tor-
rents.
Words will scarcely convey the grandeur of the scenery along the road to the loop.
The sides of the canon at some places are so high that it is almost a necessity to lie on
one’s back to see out. The average gradient of the track is 185 ft. to the mile, so
that engines can take only five of the little coaches up at a time. The track is so tor-
tuous that it crosses the river eighteen times in the run of 43 miles from Golden to
Silver Plume. At some places it is so crooked that they say that passengers are not
permitted to spit out of the windows of the rear car hecanse the spray flies into the
engineer’s eyes. The first stopping place after leaving Golden was Chimney Gulch.
The name was the first really Rock-mountainy sounding one that had yet reached my
eastern ears. There is nothing more than a restaurant there, where lunch baskets can
be bought at a reasonable figure. Besides containing chicken, bread and butter
fruit, pickles etc., a bottle of wine is included. In the bar of the. restaurant a
woman was serving drinks and all of the liquor was sold in small bottles, supposed to
hold the amount of a respectable man’s drink. As a matter of fact they held about
two small glasses and as yon paid a quarter for a bottle the price turned out to be
about the same as it is in the East. The river from Chimney Gulch up to Idaho
Springs is a succession of individual placer mining claims. All along its bed, wher-
ever the water was shallow enough, could be seen the sluice boxes and water wheels
of the miners. I was told on the train that men working in the stream made from $2
to $3.50 every day. Anybody can work who wants to, so long as the territory of an-
other is not intrnded upon. Idaho Springs is a health resort. At that place the
canon ends and there is a valley about a quarter of a mile wide from there
up to Silver Plume, the end of the line. The mountains are everywhere
gophered out until they seem to be thoroughly perforated. Look where
you will you can see nothing but holes. There is a. little pile of grey dirt
at the mouth of each one and each represents a mine, either being worked
on a small scale or abandoned. Away up on the sides of the peaks, thousands of feet
above the track, can be seen little shanties clinging to the steep slopes like the tendrils
of some gigantic vine. Just when you are beginning to wonder how any one got up
there to build a cabin or gets ptovisions up to its occupant you will see a prospector
winding along a trail with one of those, sure footed, faihful, hardy little burros
following with a freight pack ou its back.
Georgetown, the next stopping place, is the county seat of Clear Creek county,
one of the smallest in area in the State. It was constructed in 1861 and bears the dis-
tinction of being the scene of the first ‘‘pay placer beds in the State.”” In 1897 the
mines of that county produced $782,648.88 in gold, $860,500.76 in silver $54,183.57 in
copper and $177,893.32 in lead. I should like to tell you more about the great min-
ing interests about Georgetown, now at a stand still because there is no market for
silver, but want of space prevents and I must hurry on to Silver Plume, nine miles
further up the road. In reaching the latter place the tracks make a perfect loop, the
closed end crossing the river and the lower track on a curved trestle that is 93ft above
the water; the curve having a radius of only 319} ft. The loop looks like a great snake
coiled up; the track winding round and round until finally it reaches an altitude of
8,772 ft. and shoots off over the other tracks to Silver Plume.
Silver Plume is, as its name indicates, a great silver mining camp, but it is dead
now. They were shoveling the snow off the side-walks when we reached the place.
And while it is a town of probably a thousand population the general appearance of it
impressed me in about the same way that the vicinity of Valentines iron works impresses
our people. The people are all there yet, with nothing to do. They are hopeful,
he-vever. The little bit of mining that was being done was worked on the royalty
plan; individual miners entering the great tunnels that have been deserted hy the
companies and working for themselves. After climbing up along the mountain side to
an altitude of about 9,500 I entered one of the mines in which a little work was he-
ing done. The experience was very much the same as that of entering a soft coal mine
ip this county. I rode in in a little mule car and all there was of it was a tunnel in
the rock, with water dropping down on your head all the while. We passed numer-
ous drifts where a vein had led off and heen worked out, but there was really nothing
of particular interest to one who had already been in an ordinary slope mine. I
thought I would be able to include our trip to Ward in this installment but find that
it has become too long already and will leave that for part of the next story.
{ ! GEO. R. MEEK.