but a sad change has come over the clothes and shoes. This morning I was
mistaken for a homeless, friendless wanderer; this evening as I stand
on the bank of Pole Creek with nothing over me but a thin mantle of
native modesty, and ruefully wring the water out of my clothes, I feel
considerably like one. Pine Bluffs provides me with shelter for the
night, and a few miles' travel next morning takes me across the boundary-line
into Nebraska My route leads down Pole Creek, with ridable roads probably
half the distance, and low, rocky bluffs lining both sides of the narrow
valley, and leading up to high, rolling prairie beyond. Over these rocky
bluffs the Indians were wont to stampede herds of buffalo, which falling
over the precipitous bluffs, would be killed by hundreds, thus procuring
an abundance of beef for the long winter. There are no buffalo here now
- they have departed with the Indians - and I shall never have a chance to
add a bison to my game-list on this tour. But they have left plenty of
tangible evidence behind, in the shape of numerous deeply worn trails
leading from the bluffs to the creek.

The prairie hereabouts is spangled with a wealth of divers-colored flowers
that fill the morning air with gratifying perfume. The air is soft and
balmy, in striking contrast to the chilly atmosphere of early morning
in the mountain country, where the accumulated snows of a thousand winters
exert their chilling influence in opposition to the benign rays of old
Sol. This evening I pass through "Prairie-dog City," the largest
congregation of prairie-dog dwellings met with on the tour. The "city"
covers hundreds of acres of ground, and the dogs come out in such
multitudes to present their noisy and excitable protests against my
intrusion, that I consider myself quite justified in shooting at them.
I hit one old fellow fair and square, but he disappears like a flash
down his hole, which now becomes his grave. The lightning-like movements
of the prairie-dog, and his instinctive inclination toward his home,