beautiful now, their sides are so silvery, with dashes of old rose and
orange, their speckles are so black, while their backs look as if they
had been sprinkled with gold-dust. They bite so well that it doesn't
require any especial skill or tackle to catch plenty for a meal in a
few minutes.

In a little while I went back to where I had left my pony browsing,
with eight beauties. We made a fire first, then I dressed my trout
while it was burning down to a nice bed of coals. I had brought a
frying-pan and a bottle of lard, salt, and buttered bread. We gathered
a few service-berries, our trout were soon browned, and with water,
clear, and as cold as ice, we had a feast. The quaking aspens are
beginning to turn yellow, but no leaves have fallen. Their shadows
dimpled and twinkled over the grass like happy children. The sound of
the dashing, roaring water kept inviting me to cast for trout, but I
didn't want to carry them so far, so we rested until the sun was
getting low and then started for home, with the song of the locusts in
our ears warning us that the melancholy days are almost here. We would
come up over the top of a hill into the glory of a beautiful sunset
with its gorgeous colors, then down into the little valley already
purpling with mysterious twilight. So on, until, just at dark, we rode
into our corral and a mighty tired, sleepy little girl was powerfully
glad to get home.

After I had mailed my other letter I was afraid that you would think me
plumb bold about the little Bo-Peep, and was a heap sorrier than you
can think. If you only knew the hardships these poor men endure. They
go two together and sometimes it is months before they see another
soul, and rarely ever a woman. I wouldn't act so free in town, but
these men see people so seldom that they are awkward and embarrassed. I