in the blue heavens; but half of the river-cleft range intervenes, and
the river itself is at our feet.

This half range, beyond the river, is composed of long ridges nearly
parallel with the valley. On the farther ridge, to the north, four
creeks have their sources. These cut through the intervening ridges, one
of which is much higher than that on which they head, by canyon gorges;
then they run with gentle curves across the valley, their banks set with
willows, box-elders, and cottonwood groves. To the east we look up the
valley of the Vermilion, through which Fremont found his path on his way
to the great parks of Colorado.

The reading of the barometer taken, we start down in company, and reach
camp tired and hungry, which does not abate one bit our enthusiasm as we
tell of the day's work with its glory of landscape.

_June 6._--At daybreak I am awakened by a chorus of birds. It seems as
if all the feathered songsters of the region have come to the old tree.
Several species of warblers, woodpeckers, and flickers above, meadow
larks in the grass, and wild geese in the river. I recline on my elbow
and watch a lark near by, and then awaken my bedfellow, to listen to my
Jenny Lind. A real morning concert for _me;_ none of your _"matinees"!_

Our cook has been an ox-driver, or "bull-whacker," on the plains, in
one of those long trains now no longer seen, and he hasn't forgotten his
old ways. In the midst of the concert, his voice breaks in: "Roll out!
roll out! bulls in the corral! chain up the gaps! Roll out! roll out!
roll out!" And this is our breakfast bell.

To-day we pass through, the park, and camp at the head of another