This is a wonderful mining district through which we are passing, all

the hills and mountain sides being literally honeycombed with the gaping

mouths of mines. Eight miles from Boulder we come to the town of Basin,

“the largest city,” says Mr. Donovan, “in Jefferson County, having a

population of about 200 more than Boulder.” The railroad runs close to

the ruins of what had apparently been a large building recently

destroyed by fire, and we inquire of Mr. Donovan what it had been. “Two

years ago,” he replies, “the Basin and Bay State Smelting Company

erected an immense plant that was destroyed by fire as soon as it was in

operation. To build and equip the plant cost over $100,000, and its

destruction was not only a heavy loss but a serious blow to the mining

industries of Basin and all the adjacent country; but I hear it is to be

rebuilt if the output and value of the ore in this section will warrant

it.”

Our progress has become very slow and engine No. 458 is laboring very

hard. “We are now ascending a grade,” says Mr. Donovan, “of 116 feet to

the mile and have eight miles to go before we reach the summit.” It is a

tedious climb, but we do not weary of viewing the wondrous mountain

scenery. As we slowly approach the top of the grade we obtain an

excellent view of Bison River Cañon, an exceedingly wild, rugged, and

picturesque region. At last we reach the summit at an altitude of 6350

feet above sea level; this is the dividing line between the Atlantic and

Pacific slopes. From this point the waters flow westward to the Pacific

and eastward to the Atlantic Oceans. I look at my watch; it is 7.55 P.

M. in Philadelphia and 5.55 here. We now make better time, and in twenty

minutes we arrive in Butte, and are met by Brother O. L. Chapman, C.

C., and Brother H. C. Grey, secretary and treasurer of Butte Division

No. 294, also Brothers J. H. Dunn and A. H. Elliott, of same division,

who introduce us to Major Dawson, “the man who knows everybody in

Butte,” and to Mr. J. R. Wharton, manager of Butte Street Railway, who

gives us the freedom of his lines. Our people are escorted by the kind

brothers who met us, by carriages and street cars, to the Butte Hotel,

where refreshments are served, after which we are loaded into two large

band wagons and driven through the principal streets of the city. Butte

is a wonderful city, worth a trip across the continent to see. It is

strictly a mining town and has a population of over 38,000. It is

situated near the headwaters of Clark’s Fork of the Columbia River, on

the west slope of the dividing range of the Rocky Mountains. Butte is

the county seat of Silver Bow County, a county marvelously rich in its

mineral products, the aggregate value of its gold, silver, and copper

product for one year reaching the enormous sum of $9,060,917.59; and yet

it is claimed the mining industry in this district is still in its

infancy.

Butte is a city of fine, substantial buildings that are up to date in

style and beauty of architecture, and yet it is a bald and barren town,

for not a tree, a leaf, a bush, a flower, or a blade of grass can we see

anywhere within the length or breadth of its limits. It is surrounded on

every hand by smoking smelters and grinning mines, and its streets are

filled with rugged, stalwart miners. The eight-hour system of labor is

in vogue here, and the mines and smelters run day and night. The great

Anaconda Mine, owned and operated by the Anaconda Company, the richest

mining corporation in the world, extends, we are told, under the very

centre of the city of Butte, the Butte Hotel standing directly over it.

The pay rolls of the mining industries of Butte aggregate $1,500,000

yearly. We are driven out to the Colorado Smelter, and on the way pass

the Centennial Brewery, where a short stop is made to obtain some

souvenirs. We are shown through the great smelter, and when we come out

it has grown quite dark. Our drivers are old stagers and understand

handling the reins. To one wagon are attached six white horses, driven

by W. M. McIntyre, of the New York Life Insurance Company, and to the

other wagon are four bays, driven by Hanks Monk, a well-known character

of the West. Hanks is an old stage driver, and claims to be a son of the

celebrated Hanks Monk of Horace Greeley and Mark Twain fame. Mr. Monk

tells us that he is a Mormon, and a deacon in Salt Lake City Church, but

has only one wife, and has found one to be plenty. He is a genial,

good-hearted fellow, who, notwithstanding the hardships of his rugged

life of fifty-seven years, looks but forty. Hanks claims he followed the

trail for many years and never got far astray, but he will have to

acknowledge that he got off the trail once, when he ran the wagon load

of Pennsylvania Railroad conductors into a sand bank in going from the

Colorado Smelter to the station in Butte on the night of May 28th, 1897.

Hanks, however, redeemed himself by the dexterous and graceful manner in

which he guided those bewildered horses until he struck the proper trail

again, and brought us to the station all O. K. It is 10 o’clock P. M. in

Butte and time for our train to start. We bid our kind and generous

friends and brothers adieu and get aboard. Engine No. 305, in charge of

Engineer J. Else, is drawing us, and Conductor J. A. West has charge of

the train; C. Dunham is our brakeman. We have as a guest on the train

Mr. H. E. Dunn, traveling agent of the Oregon Short Line. After a delay

of an hour at Silver Bow, waiting to get a helper engine to assist up a

grade, we start on our way again at 1.15 A. M. Eastern (11.15 P. M.

Mountain) time, and I make my way to my berth in the “Marco.”

SATURDAY, MAY 29th.

Was awakened this morning between two and three o’clock by a jar that

almost tumbled me out of bed; thought at first our train had left the

track and had run into the side of a mountain; I lay quiet a moment,

expecting another crash. It didn’t come, and I realized our train was

standing still. “Guess I was dreaming,” I said to myself, as I reach

over, raise the window blind, and look out. A freight train is moving

past and our train is motionless. Mrs. S. is awake, and my movement

informs her that I am in the same condition. “What was that?” she

quietly asks, referring to the shock that awakened us. “I don’t know, my

dear, but I’m sure it was something,” I reply, satisfied now that it

wasn’t a dream. We believe the danger is over; that there is nothing to

worry about, and are soon asleep again.

Arose this morning about the usual time and find we have just left

Pocatello, Idaho, 262 miles from Butte City. We have come through much

interesting country while asleep, and have missed seeing the beautiful

Idaho Falls. The shaking up we received last night was caused by

Engineer Oram coupling engine No. 760 to our train at Lima. Oram

miscalculated the distance and banged into our train with more force

than he intended. At Pocatello engine No. 760 is exchanged for O. S. L.

engine No. 735, with Engineer J. Andrews and Fireman Standrod in the

cab, Conductor G. W. Surman and Brakeman H. Hewett, who run us to Ogden,

134 miles.

Pocatello is located in Fort Hall, Indian Reservation, and while passing

through this district we see a number of the natives. Much of the

country is level and covered with sage brush and bunch grass,

constituting immense cattle ranges, with here and there a plot of land

under cultivation, watered by irrigation, while at a distance on either

side can be seen great ranges of snow-capped mountains. We are reminded

of Chester County and home as we see the familiar name of “Oxford” above

a little station door as we fly past, midway between Dayton and Cannon.

We cross the State Line and enter Utah. Coming to Cache Junction, we are

in view of Bear River, that feeds the great irrigating canal constructed

by the Bay State Canal and Irrigating Company at a cost of $2,000,000.

This canal is about 80 miles long, the waters from which irrigate many

thousand acres of land; it is converting this dry and barren desert

country into a land of fertility, fruits, and flowers.

As we approach Ogden this great improvement is very noticeable in the

beautiful, productive farms and homesteads that are seen on every hand.

The most of the settlers through this locality, we are told, are

Mormons, but the aspect of their condition and surroundings show them

to be a thrifty, industrious, enterprising people. We arrive in Ogden at

11.20 A. M., where a stop of only twenty minutes is allowed. We are met

by Conductor E. S. Croker, C. C. of Wasatch Division No. 124, and J. H.

McCoy, of same division, who is yardmaster for the Union Pacific

Railroad at this point. Much as we desire to make a tour of this

interesting city, our limited time will not allow it, but we can see

that it is a thriving business place. It is situated on the western

slope of the Wasatch Range, at an elevation of 4301 feet above sea

level, on a triangle formed by the Weber and Ogden Rivers, which,

uniting a short distance west of the city, flow across the famous

historic valley and empty into the Great Salt Lake.

At Ogden, going west, the Union Pacific Railroad time changes from

Mountain to Pacific time. At 1.40 P. M. Eastern (11.40 A. M. Mountain)

time we start on our way again with R. G. W. engine No. 41, in charge of

Engineer J. Stewart, Conductor George King, and Brakeman J. Crompton.

From Ogden to Salt Lake City we are in continual view of the Great Salt

Lake, and pass a number of evaporating dams, where a large amount of

salt is procured through the process of evaporation. We arrive in Salt

Lake City at 12.30 P. M. Mountain time, and leaving the train we are

again hustled into wagons and driven over the city, the places of

interest being pointed out and explained by the drivers. Time and space

will not permit me to note and describe all the interesting features of

this historic and truly wonderful city. We passed through the famous

Eagle Gateway and halted on a lofty promontory overlooking

[Illustration: “DAN,” SALT LAKE CITY RAILROAD STATION, UTAH.]

[Illustration: GRAVE OF BRIGHAM YOUNG, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH.]

Temple Square, where we had a grand view of the magnificent $10,000,000

Mormon Temple. Near the Temple is the Tabernacle, an immense,

singular-looking affair, with a roof like the shell of a huge tortoise.

We are shown the Lion House and Beehive House, former residences of

Brigham Young and his large family, and pass the grave where the remains

of the great leader lie. It is a plain, ordinary-looking mound, inclosed

with a common iron fence. The great monument erected to the imperishable

fame of Brigham Young is this beautiful, remarkable city that he founded

fifty years ago. For thirty years he was the temporal and religious

leader of his people here, and Salt Lake City was almost strictly

Mormon. It is exclusive no longer, for of its present population of

65,000 about one-half, we are told, are Gentiles or Christians. “The

Christian Science faith is making rapid advances,” says our driver, “and

many Mormons are being converted to that creed.” Brigham Young was the

father of fifty-six children; when he died he left seventeen widows,

sixteen sons, and twenty-eight daughters to mourn his loss, many of whom

are living yet.

We are driven through Liberty Park, where is still standing the first

flour mill built in Utah. Returning to the train we get dinner, after

which our people scatter through the city to see the sights and gather

more souvenirs. We are all impressed with the beauty and regularity of

the streets, which all cross at right angles, are 132 feet wide,

including the sidewalks, which are 20 feet in width, bordered with

beautiful Lombardy poplar and locust trees. Along each side of the

street flows a clear, cold stream of water, which, with the beauty of

the trees and the sweet fragrance of the locust blossoms, gives to the

city an all-pervading air of coolness, comfort, and repose which is

exceedingly inviting to a warm and weary tourist. The hour grows late

and the time arrives to return to our train, which is sidetracked for

occupancy at the Rio Grande Western depot. Several of our party gather

at the corner of Main and Second South Street to await the coming of a

trolley car that will convey us to the depot, about two miles away.

According to the schedule of the line a car should pass every ten

minutes, but to-night must be an exception, for it is forty-five minutes

before our car arrives, and several of the party have started to walk.

It is near midnight when we reach our train and turn in for the night.

SUNDAY, MAY 30th.

We are all astir bright and early this morning, and after breakfast,

through the courtesy of the managers of the Saltair and Los Angeles

Railway, we are tendered a trip on their line to Saltair, one of the

latest attractions on the Great Salt Lake, 10 miles from the city. We

leave the Rio Grande Western depot at 9.30 on a Saltair and Los Angeles

train with engine No. 2, Engineer A. M. Clayton, Fireman John Little,

Conductor Joseph Risley, Brakeman F. T. Bailey. We have a thirty

minutes’ pleasant ride through an interesting country. The first few

miles we pass through a district of cozy homes, surrounded by fertile

fields and gardens, the result of industry and irrigation; then come

great level stretches of country, utilized as grazing ground, upon which

can be seen feeding thousands of sheep. As we approach the “Great Dead

Sea” of America we see that gathering salt is the chief industry, and we

pass many basins or dams where hundreds of tons of this useful commodity

are procured through the process of evaporation. Arriving at our

destination we find Saltair is a magnificent mammoth pavilion built on

the waters of Great Salt Lake, 4000 feet from shore. A track resting

upon piles connects the pavilion with the mainland, and over this our

train is run.

Saltair was erected in 1893 by Salt Lake capitalists at an expense of

$250,000. It is of Moorish style of architecture, 1115 feet long, 335

feet wide, and 130 feet high from the water to the top of the main

tower. It is over a quarter of a mile from shore and rests upon 2500

ten-inch piling or posts driven firmly into the bottom of the lake. It

contains 620 bath houses or dressing rooms, and connected with each room

is an apartment equipped with a fresh-water shower bath. Visitors who

wish to drink or lunch or lounge will find at their disposal a fine

apartment 151 by 153 feet, furnished with convenient tables and

comfortable chairs, or if it is their desire to “trip the light

fantastic toe,” they will find the ball room always open, a fine piano,

and dancing floor 140 by 250 feet. At night this wonderful place is

lighted by electricity, there being 1250 incandescent and 40 arc lamps,

and above all, in the centre of the building, there is an arc light of

2000 candle power. The bathing season has not opened yet and the water

is said to be cold, but many of us have a strong desire to take a plunge

in this remarkable and famous lake. The temperature of the water is

found to be about 75 degrees, and opinion is divided as to whether or

not it is too cold. Manager Wyman takes off his shoes and stockings and

dabbles in the water. “It is not cold,” he exclaims, “and I’m going in;”

and procuring a bathing suit he is soon splashing in the brine. His

example is rapidly followed by others, until the majority of our party,

both men and women, are floating and floundering around in water so salt

that its density enables one to swim and float with ease, but you are

helpless when you attempt to place your feet upon the bottom; the water

within the bathing limits averages about five feet in depth, and the

bottom is hard, smooth, and sandy. “If you get water in your mouth spit

it out, and if you get it in your eyes don’t rub them,” is the advice

given us by the bath attendant. If you get this water in your mouth you

want to spit it out right away; that part of the caution is unnecessary,

for it is the worst stuff I ever tasted. If you get it in your eyes you

will want to rub them, and rub them hard, but don’t do it, and you will

be surprised how soon the intense smarting will cease.

We love to swim and dive and splash and sport in the water, and have

bathed in many places, but in a brine like this never before. In fact,

it has been said that nothing like it can be found anywhere this side of

the Dead Sea of Palestine. We remained in the water for an hour and all

thoroughly enjoyed its peculiar qualities. Several of the party who

never swam before did so to-day, but it was because they couldn’t help

it, and it was better than a circus to see them. Not one of us regret or

will ever forget our trip to Saltair and our bath in Great Salt Lake.

Strange as it may seem, this great inland sea occupies an altitude 4000

feet higher than the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. It is 93 miles long,

with an average width of 43 miles, containing almost 4000 square miles.

It is shallow compared with the depth of other large bodies of water,

its deepest places measuring but 60 feet. A number of islands rise out

of its waters, the largest being Stansbury and Antelope, near its

southern shore. It is between these two islands that beautiful,

destined-to-be-celebrated Saltair is located.

Returning, we arrive at the Rio Grande Western depot about 12.30, and

after partaking of lunch in our dining car we go in a body to attend

services in the Mormon Tabernacle. They were looking for us, for we had

been invited to come, and we find a section of vacant seats awaiting us

near the centre of the immense auditorium. We are all favorably

impressed with what we see and hear, the Mormon manner of worship being

not unlike that of any other church. So far as we can discern, the

speakers make no effort to expound any particular or peculiar creed or

doctrine, but preach charity, love, and duty to one another and

obedience to the laws of God, which is a religion good enough for the

entire world. An attractive feature of the service is the singing, the

choir consisting of 400 voices, accompanied by the music of what is

claimed to be one of the largest church organs in the world, and led by

a gentleman highly skilled in his profession, who manages his great

concourse of singers with remarkable accuracy and precision. This music

is aided and enhanced by the peculiar and marvelous acoustic properties

of the building, which seems to convey and distribute sound in such a

wonderful manner that the entire edifice is filled with the grand and

charming melody. We are all delighted and highly appreciate the

privilege of having been allowed to visit this, one of the noted wonders

of this famous Mormon city. The Tabernacle is an oddly-constructed

building, 250 feet long, 150 feet wide, and 80 feet high, covered with

an oval-shaped roof that, without any visible support except where it

rests upon the walls, spans the vast auditorium beneath, which will seat

over 8000 people.

The place was well filled to-day, and we are told that it is not unusual

to have a congregation of 10,000 within the inclosure during Sabbath

service. There are twenty double doors nine feet in width, which open

outward, like the great doors of a barn, and the floor being on a level

with the ground outside, the vast congregation is enabled to make its

exit in a very few minutes without crowding or confusion.

The services being over, we soon find ourselves outside the building,

but still within the inclosure that constitutes Temple Square. This

square or “block,” containing about ten acres, is surrounded by a wall

two feet thick and fourteen feet high, composed of adobe bricks built

upon a foundation of stone. Four great gates, one on each side, lead

into the inclosure, which is ornamented with fine shade trees and

beautiful flowers, and contains the three famous buildings of the

Mormons, or “Latter Day Saints,” as they prefer to be called. The

Tabernacle, where regular service is held each Sabbath, is the only

edifice to which the public is admitted. Assembly Hall, a large granite

building of unique design, erected in 1880 at a cost of $90,000, is used

exclusively by Church officials for special meetings

[Illustration: THE MORMON TEMPLE AND SQUARE, SALT LAKE CITY.]

pertaining to the business of the Church. The Temple, a grand granite

structure, the building and furnishing of which, we are told, has cost

many millions of dollars, is as a sealed book to the outside world. Its

interior is regarded as holy, consecrated ground, that has never been

contaminated by an “unbeliever’s” presence. To admit a Gentile within

its walls would be a fearful desecration. We cannot get inside, and gaze

in admiration and curiosity upon its grand and massive walls, wondering

what mighty mysteries are hidden within. Near the Temple that he

designed and the corner stone of which he laid stands the statue of

Brigham Young.

Leaving the grounds, our party scatters, some returning to the train and

others strolling around the city. The sun shines very hot, but it is

cool and refreshing in the shade. Mrs. S. and myself make a call on Mrs.

Catharine Palmer, residing on State Street, a sister of Mr. C. K. Dolby,

of Delaware County, Pennsylvania, an acquaintance of mine, who requested

me to call on his sister had I the opportunity while in Salt Lake City.

We are cordially received and spend a pleasant hour with Mr. and Mrs.

Palmer, who are well advanced in years and very comfortably fixed. Their

residence is surrounded by great maple trees, planted by Mr. Palmer many

years ago, and he now loves to sit on his porch under their grateful

shade and enjoy the fruits of his well-spent days of industry and toil.

On our return to the depot I encounter a party of the “boys” under the

escort of Mr. James Devine, chief of Salt Lake City fire department, an

acquaintance of Brother Leary’s, who are starting on a little tour

through the town. I join them, and boarding an electric car we make a

pleasant trip and are shown many places of interest. Mr. Devine is an

excellent guide and entertains us with a number of anecdotes and stories

of the people and their customs. “Who is the present head of the Mormon

Church, Mr. Devine?” I ask. “An old gentleman by the name of W.

Woodruff,” replies Mr. Devine, “but it will not be long, I think, before

they will need another, for Mr. Woodruff is past ninety years of age. A

short time ago, in commemoration of his ninetieth birthday, a family

reunion was held, at which gathering his children, grandchildren, and

greatgrandchildren numbered 90, one direct descendant for each year of

his life. The old man is quite wealthy and owns some of the most fertile

land in the State of Utah, if not in the world. I know it to be a fact

that an experiment was made last year with an acre of his land to

determine the amount of potatoes that can be raised per acre under

favorable conditions, and that acre produced the extraordinary yield of

800 bushels. A like experiment in producing wheat resulted in the

unprecedented yield of 82 bushels.” We can hardly credit this, but Mr.

Devine declares it is true. One of the “boys” has been holding a letter

in his hand, addressed to some friend in the East, and for some time has

been waiting for a chance to deposit it in a letter box without getting

left; at last he sees a chance, and quickly springing from the car when

it stops at a corner to discharge some passengers, he tries to find an

opening in what he supposes is a United States receptacle for letters.

“Hold on, there,” exclaims Chief Devine, “I have a key for that if you

want to get into it.” It is a fire-alarm box into which our brother is

trying to insert his epistle. “Twenty-five dollars fine for tampering

with a fire alarm in this town,” says Brother Maxwell, as the abashed

victim of the mistake returns to the car. “Yer-hef-ner bizness to monkey

with it,” chided Brother Schuler; but the proper place is soon found and

the letter safely mailed.

We called on Jacob Moritz, president of the Utah Brewing Company, of

Salt Lake City, who showed us over his immense establishment and

entertained us in a very generous manner. During the conversation, Mr.

Moritz, while speaking about the decline of polygamy on account of the

vigorous enforcement of the law that forbids a plurality of wives,

recited an incident that came under his observation a short time since.

An old Mormon having several wives fell a victim to the stern mandate of

the law. Being under indictment for a criminal offense results in

disfranchisement, but the old gentleman did not know he could not vote.

Pending his trial an election occurred and the old man went to the polls

to cast his ballot, but was sternly challenged. He was dumfounded at

first, but was soon made to understand why he was denied the privileges

of citizenship. Raising his right hand toward Heaven he exclaimed,

“Gentlemen, you won’t allow me to vote, but, thank God, I have

twenty-four sons who can vote.” “That’s a family of boys to be proud

of,” remarked Brother Leary. “If they were illegally procured,” added

Brother Reilly. Mr. Moritz offered a fine cut-glass goblet to the one

who could come nearest guessing the number of drams it would hold.

Brother Waddington got closest to it and carried off the prize.

Bidding adieu to our kind host, we returned to our train and found

dinner ready in the dining car. Chief Devine returned and took dinner

with us. We also had with us as a guest Mr. Nymphas C. Murdock, of

Charlestown, Wasatch County, Utah. Brother Barrett met Mr. Murdock at

the Tabernacle services this afternoon, and becoming interested in his

conversation invited him to visit our train. Mr. Murdock is a bishop in

the Mormon Church and an intelligent and highly entertaining gentleman.

Fifty years ago, when but ten years of age, he came with his parents,

who were followers of Brigham Young, on that famous journey to the Great

Salt Lake Valley. He has been identified with the Church since its

establishment here, and was the first settler in Charlestown, which is

located about 35 miles west of Salt Lake City, and he has been

postmaster there for 31 years. Mr. Murdock made no effort to intrude

upon us any of the peculiar doctrines or beliefs of his Church, but

answered all our questions in a frank and pleasant manner, giving us a

great deal of useful and interesting information. “Tell us something

about your Temple, Mr. Murdock,” I requested, “and why you consider it

too holy for visitors to enter?” “The Temple is considered holy because

it has been consecrated to holy creeds and devoted to sacred objects,”

answered Mr. Murdock in a solemn, quiet tone. “The spirits of the dead

assemble in the Temple to commune with living friends.” “If that is so I

don’t blame them for excluding the public,” I said to myself, “for if

there is anything that will make a spirit scoot it is the presence of an

unbeliever,” but I remained perfectly quiet, for I felt there was more

coming. “We have a creed,” continued Mr. Murdock, “that declares the

living can be wedded to the dead, and it is in the Temple that this

most sacred of all ceremonies is solemnized and performed.” “I can’t see

how it is possible,” I quietly remarked. “I will explain,” Mr. Murdock

gently said; “to the ‘believer’ it is very plain and simple. Suppose,

for instance, I am betrothed to a woman who sickens and dies before we

are married; if she truly loved me in life her spirit will meet me at

the Temple altar, where marriage rites will be performed that will unite

us for all eternity.” I really think Mr. Murdock is a good and honest

man and believes what he told us, but to us the whole matter seemed like

an interesting fairy story--very pretty, but outside the realm of truth

and reason. There were some pertinent questions in my mind I felt like

asking, but did not wish to injure the feelings or offend a kind and

entertaining guest, and so we bid him good-bye and let him depart in

peace.

A number of our people went over to Fort Douglas this afternoon and were

highly pleased with the trip. George “Alfalfa” was along and met an old

chum over there in the person of William Barnes. William was a messenger

in the employ of Mayor Fitler, Philadelphia, when George and he were

buddies. He likes army life first rate and George says he is a good

soldier. The troops at Fort Douglas are all colored, commanded by white

officers. We are scheduled to leave this evening at nine o’clock, and it

is drawing near the time; our train is at the station and Manager Wyman

has ascertained that our people are all “on deck.” We must not forget

“Dan,” the pet bear at the Rio Grande Western depot. He was captured

several years ago when a cub and has been confined in a pen near the

station ever since. He is a fine big fellow now, and has been faring

well since our visit, for no one of our party thinks of passing the pen

of Dan without giving him some sweetmeats, of which he is very fond. My

last thoughts are of Dan, for finding I have some lumps of sugar and a

few cakes in my pocket, I hasten to his pen and give them to him, and

return just in time to get aboard. We leave promptly at 11.00 P. M.

Eastern (9.00 P. M. Mountain) time, over the Rio Grande Western Railway,

bound for Grand Junction, with the same engine and crew that brought us

from Ogden to Salt Lake City. As a guest we have with us Train

Supervisor Frank Selgrath, who will go with us to Grand Junction. At

Clear Creek, 83 miles from Salt Lake City, we get a ten-wheel engine,

No. 132, to help us up a six-mile grade with a rise of 200 feet to the

mile. This is a fine, picturesque country, we are told, through which we

are passing, but not being able to see in the dark, we cannot judge of

its beauty, and finding it is near midnight I hie away to my little bed

and am soon fast asleep.

MONDAY, MAY 31st.

Awakened this morning about six o’clock by Mrs. S. remarking, “I never

saw the beat! Who would believe that so much of our country is desert?”

I thought she was talking in her sleep, but turning over I find her

gazing out of the window at the rapidly-fleeting landscape. We have

drifted away from the mountains and rocks and are crossing a level,

barren plain. For miles we see no sign of habitation or cultivation, but

now in the distance we catch sight of an irrigating canal, with here and

there a plot of land under cultivation whose fertility and verdure

[Illustration: CHAS. E. HOOPER, OF THE DENVER AND RIO GRANDE

RAILROAD.]

break the hard lines of the desert monotony. We pass a station and upon

the name board we see the word “Fruita,” a singular name, we think, for

a station; but in the two seconds’ glance we have of its surroundings we

can but feel that it is appropriate. Irrigating ditches, fertile fields,

thrifty orchards, and blooming gardens are all seen in that fleeting

glance, and we are more than ever impressed with the fact that it needs

but water to convert these desert tracts into verdant fields. A number

of our people are astir, and we too “turn out.” We find we are in

Colorado, having crossed the State line at Utaline, a little station 35

miles west of Grand Junction, which we are now approaching, and where we

arrive about seven o’clock. We halt here only long enough to change

engines, but in our brief stay we can see that Grand Junction is quite a

town. It has a population of about 4000; is located at the confluence of

the Gunnison and Grand Rivers, with an elevation of 4500 feet; it is

quite a railway centre, being the terminus of both the broad and

narrow-gauge lines of the Denver and Rio Grande, the Rio Grande Western

and the Colorado Midland Railways.

At 9.08 A. M. Eastern (7.08 A. M. Mountain) time we leave Grand

Junction, on the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, with engine No. 522,

Engineer “Cyclone” Thompson, Fireman Bert Roberts, Conductor William M.

Newman, Brakemen J. Grout and O. McCullough. Conductor Hugh Long, of

Salida Division No. 132, and Charles E. Hooper, advertising agent of the

Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, met our train at Grand Junction, and we

find them a pleasing and entertaining addition to our party. They

present us with descriptive time tables, illustrated pamphlets, and

souvenir itineraries of our trip over the wonderful scenic route of the

Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. From Grand Junction to Glenwood Springs

we follow the Grand River through the Valley of the Grand, amid grand

and beautiful scenery. As we approach Glenwood Springs and pass the

little stations of Rifle and Antlers, Brother Sloane grows very

enthusiastic, for this is a noted hunting district, with which our

brother is familiar. From Newcastle to Glenwood Springs, a distance of

12 miles, we traverse closely the north banks of the Grand River, and

parallel with the tracks of the Colorado Midland Railroad on the

opposite side.

Arriving at Glenwood Springs at 9.40 A. M., we go direct from the train

to the springs under the escort of Mr. Hooper, who has made arrangements

to give our party free access to the bathing establishment, where we are

very courteously received, and each one who desires to bathe is

furnished with a suit and a dressing room. Steps lead down into the

pool, which is about an acre in size and filled with warm, sulphurous

water to the depth of four to five feet. The hot water, at a temperature

of 120 degrees, gushes into the pool on one side at the rate of about

2000 gallons per minute, and on the opposite side an ice-cold mountain

stream pours in at about the same rate, keeping the water at a pleasant

bathing temperature.

We spent an hour in the pool and enjoyed it mightily. How much fun we

had we can never tell, but we know we had fun, and other people knew it,

too, for the following item appeared in to-day’s _Avalanche_, an

afternoon Glenwood Springs paper:--

[Illustration: BATHING POOL AT GLENWOOD SPRINGS, COLORADO.]

[Illustration: IN THE POOL AT GLENWOOD SPRINGS.]

“CONDUCTORS IN THE POOL.

“The Pennsylvania Railroad conductors who arrived in Glenwood Springs

this morning from the West had more fun in the pool than a lot of wild

Indians. Their shouts of mirth and their laughter could be heard at

Cardiff, three miles south. If the Indians ever had as much fun in that

pool as those Pennsylvania Railroad conductors, then, Wampam woopham

longheir spookham.”

We all feel that this item does us great honor, but we are puzzled for

awhile to understand the meaning of the closing expression, until one of

our party who had made a study of savage classic lore interpreted it as

meaning, “Yankem, spankem, daredevil blankem.”

After leaving the pool, another hour was spent in visiting the sulphur

springs and vapor cave and in writing and mailing letters. The latter we

did in the beautiful Hotel Colorado, which is located near the bathing

establishment and is said to be one of the finest-equipped hotels

between the Atlantic and Pacific. The Grand River separates the baths

from the town, and is crossed by a double-decker bridge, the lower deck

for vehicles, the upper for pedestrians. We recrossed the bridge and

after a short wait for our train to be brought to us we again got

aboard, and at 3.00 P. M. Eastern (1.00 P. M. Mountain) time left

Glenwood Springs bound for Salida.

For 16 miles we wind through the cañon of the Grand River, and view with

feelings of admiration and awe those towering walls of rock of such

peculiar construction and varied colors that we wonder what remarkable

process of Nature could have ever formed them thus. At Gypsum, 25 miles

from Glenwood Springs, Grand River disappears from view and we come in

sight of Eagle River, following it for several miles. We pass great beds

of lava and can see, away in the distance, a burned and blackened course

where the lava had flowed down a chasm in the mountain, perhaps

thousands of years ago. On the plateaus, at the foot of towering cliffs,

are numerous little farms in a thrifty state of cultivation. We stop at

Minturn to change engines, and bid “Cyclone” Thompson and his trusty

fireman, Bert Roberts, good-bye.

We leave in a few minutes with engine No. 524. Engineer Al. Philliber

and Fireman Charley Wilcox are in the cab, “Billy” Newman and his

brakemen remain with us. Conductor Newman is a member of Denver Division

No. 44 and an enthusiastic lover of the order. He is a model conductor

and an entertaining companion. E. A. Thayer, Esq., superintendent of

hotel, dining, and restaurant service, is our guest from Glenwood

Springs to Salida, and we find him an interesting gentleman. Brother

Dougherty has found an old friend in Brother Hugh Long, and he has much

enjoyment in his company. Charley Hooper is everybody’s friend and

always has an admiring, interested group around him, and if we could

only remember all that Charley tells us we could write an intensely

interesting volume. He is perfectly familiar with all of this wonderful

country and is an exceedingly interesting companion.

Soon after leaving Minturn we enter Eagle River Cañon, whose sloping,

pine-fringed walls rise to the height of over 2000 feet on either side,

almost shutting out the light of day. A heavy shower adds to the gloom,

but does not detract from the interest, for these mighty mountain sides

are honeycombed with hundreds of mines and dotted with the cabins of the

miners. It is very curious and wonderful to see a human habitation

hanging, as it were, a thousand feet in the air, on the side of a

mountain, where it would seem a mountain goat could hardly obtain a

foothold; yet there they are, and many of them--in one place an entire

village of red and white cottages, so very high up that they look like

miniature houses or dove cots suspended in the air. The products of the

mines are lowered to the railroad tracks by means of tramways operated

by endless chains or cables, and material is conveyed to the lofty

residents by the same novel arrangement.

For four miles we wind up through this marvelous mountain ravine, deeply

interested in the wonderful sights and scenery of this extraordinary

mining industry. A short stop is made at Belden, where extensive gold

mines are in operation, but so high up on the mountain side are the

shafts or entrances to the mines that it is impossible to visit them in

the limited time we have. Since leaving Minturn our course has been

gradually upward, and we have Engineer Amberson, with helper engine No.

513, to assist us up the grade. Emerging from the famous and

never-to-be-forgotten Eagle River Cañon, we shortly come to the mining

town of Red Cliff. It is a lively, thrifty place of about 1000

inhabitants, has an elevation of 8671 feet, and is surrounded by grand

mountain scenery. From this point Mr. Hooper directs our attention to a

view of the Mount of the Holy Cross, but only a glimpse is obtained of

the great white cross and then it is lost to view. “Distance lends

enchantment to the view,” quotes Mr. Thayer. “Do you know,” he

continues, “were it possible to transport you to the summit of yonder

mount, 20 miles away, and set you down, you would see no semblance of a

cross? You would only see rugged rocks, desolate peaks, and snow-filled

ravines; you would look in vain for the sublime and typical beauty that

you so easily discern 20 miles or more away. You would see, were you in

a proper location, the conditions and materials that make your beautiful

picture. A great valley or ravine extends down the mountain side, into

which the snows of many Winters have drifted. This is one of Nature’s

perpetual ice houses, whose supply never becomes exhausted. Across the

face of the mountain, near the summit, crossing this ravine at right

angles, is another great depression or fissure, likewise filled with

perpetual ice and snow. All the surroundings are rugged, rough, and

broken, and you would never think of looking for the likeness of a cross

in the wild, bleak desolation of ice-bound, snow-filled mountain chasms.

Distance, however, obliterates the rocks and roughness and smooths the

rugged features of the mountain side, and the great white cross of snow

stands out in bold relief, as though formed of carved and polished

marble. It is a pretty picture, and one that the imagination and

sentiment of man have almost rendered sacred.”

We are now approaching Tennessee Pass, and our engines are working hard

as they climb the steep ascent. Our progress is slow, but so much the

better, as it gives us an opportunity to contemplate and enjoy the

indescribable beauty of this famous mountain scenery. We reach the pass

shortly after four o’clock, at an altitude of 10,418 feet, the highest

point on the main line of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Here we

again cross the Great Continental Divide and enter the Atlantic slope.

Mr. Hooper calls our attention to a tiny stream of water flowing near

the track, remarking as he does so, “That is the headwaters of the

Arkansas River. We follow it for a number of miles and it will be

interesting to notice it gradually increasing in size and volume as we

proceed.” Our course is slightly downward and our rate of speed

increases. We soon reach Leadville, where we halt for half an hour. The

time is insufficient to allow us to visit the town, but we get out and

look around. A train of freight cars is standing on a sidetrack a short

distance away, loaded with ore, and the “boys” are told to help

themselves. A number avail themselves of the opportunity of procuring

Leadville “specimens” for souvenirs. The pieces carried away, I imagine,

contain but very little of the precious metal, for I believe, judging

from the appearance, that the “specimens” are being obtained from a

train load of railroad ballast. I tell Brothers Sparks and Matthews and

some of the rest my convictions, but they call me a “tenderfoot” and say

I “don’t know a good thing when I see it.” Maybe I don’t, but I have a

chunk of that stuff in my pocket that I will take home and exhibit to my

friends as a specimen of Leadville gold quartz, and if they know no more

about the material than I do they will believe it. If it is but a stone,

I will prize it as a souvenir from the most noted mining camp of the

West.

Leadville first became famous in 1859 as the richest gold-mining camp in

Colorado, and was known as “California Gulch.” Five million dollars in

gold dust were washed from the ground of this gulch the first five years

after its discovery, then for fourteen years it lay almost dormant,

until in 1878 rich deposits of silver were discovered. At that time the

place took a new lease of life, was renamed Leadville, and has been a

booming city ever since. It now has a population of 15,000 inhabitants

and is the county seat of Lake County. Leadville has an elevation of

10,200 feet, enjoying the highest altitude of any city of its size in

North America, if not in the world. It lies amid some of the grandest

and most magnificent scenery to be found anywhere, and is surrounded by

towering, snow-capped mountain peaks, whose glistening summits almost

pierce the sky. We find the atmosphere cool and bracing, but so

exceedingly rare that a brisk walk or short run will make you pant for

breath. I found this out when I ran to the sidetrack for a piece of

“ballast.”

Our half hour is up and Conductor Newman and Manager Wyman are shouting

“All aboard!” We scramble on, and at 7.40 P. M. Eastern (5.40 P. M.

Mountain) time our train pulls out and we leave in our rear an

interesting, picturesque, and famous town. At Malta, five miles from

Leadville, we lay on a sidetrack ten minutes waiting for a train we meet

at this point. Leaving Malta, we pass through a fertile valley, through

which flows the Arkansas River, that we notice is rapidly growing larger

and more turbulent. We are still running parallel with the Colorado

Midland Railroad, which for miles is within fifty feet of the Denver and

Rio Grande. We notice a severe storm raging on a mountain not far away,

and it seems to be snowing hard at the summit.

[Illustration: WALTER W. TERRY, OF THE COMMITTEE.]

As we pass Buena Vista, 25 miles west of Salida, the setting sun is

shining upon the snow-crowned summits of the collegiate group of

mountain peaks, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, and many are the

exclamations of pleasure and delight at the beauty and grandeur of the

sight. These three peaks, each over 14,000 feet in height, are a part of

the Sawatch Range of the Rocky Mountains. With their cloud-veiled crests

wreathed in perpetual snow, those majestic, rugged giants are ever

subjects of interest and pleasure to tourists; but this evening the

setting sun has transformed their crowns of glistening snow into

dazzling diamonds, and the veil of fleecy clouds that hang about their

summits into a gorgeous canopy of purple, silver, and gold. It is a

scene of transcendent loveliness and grandeur. No wonder our people are

in ecstasies of delight. Mrs. Dougherty claps her hands, and Mrs.

Matthews exclaims, “Jimmie, look!” Jimmie, Waddie, Oscar, and the

Colonel suspend their interesting game of euchre and turn their

attention for a moment to the mountains and the clouds. Mrs. Horner has

such an expression of intense rapture in her face that Sam, thinking she

is about to have a fit, pours a glass of ice water down her back. Mrs.

Mattson says she believes she has an artist’s soul, for a sight like

this makes her nerves tingle and her mouth water, and the Doctor,

standing near, is explaining to an interested circle the philosophy of

sunshine, clouds, and colors in their relation to towering, snow-crowned

peaks. Suddenly mountain views are obstructed and the light of day is

almost excluded by massive walls of rock that encompass us. We have

plunged into Brown’s Cañon, a mighty chasm in the mountain, between

whose towering cliffs there is just room enough for the Arkansas River

and the railroad. For many, many years the river held undisputed sway

and rushed unaccompanied and alone through this rocky, desolate gorge,

till then the railroad came. The nerve and daring of the men who brought

it were equal to the task. They followed the foaming river into this

wild ravine and fearlessly built their tracks upon its spray-bathed

banks; and now as train and river rush headlong together through this

narrow, dark defile, the snort of the locomotive and rumble of the train

mingles with the roar and gurgle of the tumultuous torrent.

We emerge from the cañon as suddenly as we entered it, and the broad,

fertile valley of the Arkansas greets our vision. It is a pleasant

change. Still following the river, we traverse the valley until at 7.55,

as daylight is fading and it is growing dusk, our train comes to a stop

in Salida. We are met at the station by Superintendent R. M. Ridgway,

Trainmaster G. H. Barnes, and Chief Dispatcher W. Rech, of the Denver

and Rio Grande Railroad, who give us a cordial welcome and kindly inform

us that arrangements have been made to give us a trip to-morrow over the

narrow-gauge road to Marshall Pass and return. Escorted by Mr. Hooper

and Conductor Newman, a number of us start out to see the town.

Salida is a quiet, clean, orderly, picturesque little mountain town of

about 3500 inhabitants. It is situated on the Arkansas River, with an

elevation of 7050 feet. We accept an invitation to visit the fine

parlors of the Salida Club and are royally treated by the members

present. Our bosom friend and life preserver, Tom McDonald, is along,

and proves to be quite an expert with the billiard cue, giving his

opponent, Dr. Mattson, a hard hustle in the game they play. A party of

our ladies get on our trail and overtake us at the club. They present

the bachelor brothers of the party each with a miniature souvenir spoon,

but give no explanation why this is done. The inference is that it is

but an act of sisterly good-fellowship that needs no interpretation.

Following the presentation of the spoons the ladies entertain us for

half an hour with excellent singing and music on the piano. As it draws

near midnight we return to our train and turn in. Some of the “boys,” it

is noticed, are not with us when we reach the train, and to them I will

have to ascribe another line of “unwritten history.”

TUESDAY, JUNE 1st.

Everybody is up bright and early this morning, in anticipation of the

promised trip up the mountains to Marshall Pass. After breakfast we

board a special train on the Denver and Rio Grande Narrow-Gauge

Railroad, and at 8.12 o’clock start on a novel and interesting ride of

25 miles over a road that is a marvel of engineering ingenuity and

skill. It requires two engines to make the laborious ascent, which in

many places is 211 feet to the mile. Our engines are No. 175, manned by

Engineer Sam Roney and Fireman W. Brewster; helper engine No. 400,

Engineer W. D. Yates, Fireman M. M. Smith. Conductor M. Guerin has

charge of the train, and the brakemen are Tom Kelley and F. Duncan.

Five miles from Salida we reach Poncha Junction, and here the winding

and climbing commences in earnest. The weather since we started has

become unfavorable; clouds obscure the sun and hide the summits of the

surrounding peaks. It has commenced to rain, but the rain lasts only for

a little while. As we ascend the clouds become lighter, and finally we

see the sun and the sky. Looking down, the clouds and mist hide the

valleys from our sight--we are above the clouds and rain; looking up, we

behold the brightest, bluest sky we have ever seen; and still our course

is upward. Our engines snort and cough and puff as they slowly climb and

wind the spiral pathway that leads to the wind-swept summit.

As we near the top we have a magnificent unobstructed view of grand,

majestic mountain scenery. Near by looms up mighty Mt. Ouray, an extinct

volcano, down whose rugged sides, ages ago, the molten lava flowed;

fire-scarred and grim he stands, a silent, frowning sentinel guarding

the mountain pass. His companion, Mt. Shaveno, is near, his towering

summit being crowned with eternal snow. Mounts Ouray and Shaveno were

named in honor of the famous Ute Indian chiefs, and are everlasting

monuments to the memory of a once powerful tribe.

Far in the distance, many miles to the south, can be seen, mingling with

the sky and clouds, the gleaming peaks of the Sangre de Cristo

Mountains, the grandest range of the Sierras. All this range of vision,

from Ouray to Sangre de Cristo, is filled with picturesque valleys,

timbered hills, mountain cañons, towering peaks, and glistening snow.

While we are feasting our eyes upon this grandeur, suddenly it is shut

out from view, for we have entered a dismal snow shed. The train stops

and our journey is ended. We get out of the train,

[Illustration: COLONEL AND MRS. MITCHELL AT MARSHALL PASS.]

[Illustration: THE “COMMITTEE” AT MARSHALL PASS.]

and looking around, we see a door that leads from the shed, which we

pass through, and find snowdrifts six feet deep and the wind blowing a

gale.

I see Brother Restein snap his kodak at Colonel and Mrs. Mitchell as

they bravely face the wintry blast; the committee is lined up and he

also snaps at them. Steps lead to a lofty tower and a number of us

ascend. Some start and turn back; the exertion makes your heart beat

like a trip hammer, cuts your wind, and makes you dizzy. We who reach

the top do not tarry long; the view is magnificent, but the wind is

cold. Overcoats and wraps were brought along and they are needed; the

thermometer registered eleven last night, and now it stands at

thirty-three. It is a bleak, barren, wind-swept place, and yet it is

healthy.

A family has been living here for five years. The husband and father is

employed on the road and the mother has charge of the station. She has

never been absent from the place, she says, since they took up their

residence here. The oldest child was an infant when they came, and two

have been born since. They are fine, healthy children, and have never

been sick. A doctor has never visited them, she says, because one has

never been needed. We are ready to leave before the train is ready to

take us; a short visit to a place like this is sufficient. Several of

the “boys” amuse themselves by snowballing one another and washing with

snow the faces of some of the “girls.”

Marshall Pass is 10,852 feet above the level of the sea, and is situated

upon a point of the Great Continental Divide--on the ridge pole, as it

were, between the Atlantic and Pacific slopes. Within the dingy snow

shed where our train is standing we notice water slowly trickling down

the bank into the ditch along the track; it makes a tiny stream, just

large enough to flow, and we can see that it is running in each

direction. A number of us place our fingers upon the dividing line, thus

literally touching a point of the very comb of the great water shed

between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans.

Our return is made with more speed than our ascent, but in a very

careful manner; helper engine 400 is detached and sent ahead. The

descent is made by gravity, the air brakes being used to keep the train

under control. Engineer Roney deserves great credit for the careful

manner in which he handles the train. A stop of five minutes is made at

Mear’s Junction, where we make the acquaintance of Station Agent Smith,

who, along with his duties as station agent and telegraph operator, is

an artist of merit; a number of pictures of mountain scenery that he has

painted adorn the walls of the station rooms.

When we get back to Salida and to our train it is 2.05 P. M. Eastern

(12.05 P. M. Mountain) time. We find our friend McDonald looking for us,

with an abundant lunch prepared, which we heartily appreciate and

thoroughly enjoy. We are scheduled to leave here at one o’clock, and as

it is nearing that time, we bid adieu to the good people of Salida who

have shown us such a royal time, and at one o’clock, sharp, we steam

away from the pretty little town, bound for Colorado Springs, 142 miles

nearer home.

Leaving Salida we have engine 509, in charge of Engineer John Carr and

Fireman R. Wilmonger. Our conductor is J. E. Duey, a member of Arkansas

Valley Division No. 36, of Pueblo, Col. Brother Duey enjoys the

notoriety of being a cousin to the late Jesse James, the famous bandit

and train robber. The brakemen are S. G. Carlisle and William Shoemaker.

Charlie Hooper is still with us, and at present is busily engaged in

distributing fine photographic pictures of scenes along the picturesque

Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Mr. Hooper’s kindness and generosity are

greatly appreciated, and the pictures will be highly prized as valuable

souvenirs of our trip. In addition to Mr. Hooper we have with us as

guests Brothers W. Newman and Frank Smith, of Division 44, and Harry

Hart, of Division 36. A short stop is made at Parkdale, 46 miles from

Salida, where we meet Rev. John Brunton, who is invited to accompany us

to Pueblo. Mr. Brunton, who is an old engineer, retired from active

service, is First Division Chaplain, and has charge of the employés’

reading room in Pueblo. He is an entertaining old gentleman; says he is

employed to fight the devil, who is always sneaking around after

railroad men. Brother Houston says, “A man like that is needed on the

Schuylkill Division.” No one replies to this insinuation, except Brother

Reagan, who merely says, “Sure.”

Soon after leaving Parkdale we enter the Grand Cañon of the Arkansas,

which is 8 miles in length and the crowning wonder of all the marvelous

sights we have yet beheld; a mighty pathway, right through the heart of

the Rocky Mountains, hewn by Nature through inaccessible towering

mountain walls. Through this narrow gorge, whose perpendicular walls

rise to the height of over 2000 feet, the crowded, pent-up waters of the

Arkansas River rush and roar and foam. There is scarcely space for both

railroad and river, but with an audacity that knows no shrinking the

intrepid engineers entered the walled-up, darksome cañon, and, following

the intricate winding of the surging stream, laid their tracks of steel

along its foam-flecked bank. Beyond a doubt it is the most daring feat

of railroad engineering ever performed. When half way through the awful

Royal Gorge is reached, here the river holds despotic, undisputed sway

for a distance of 100 feet. There is no bank to lay the tracks upon;

from wall to wall the river surges, leaps, and roars. From out the water

those mighty walls, built by Nature’s hand, run right straight up, 2600

feet in the air. Ingenuity and nerve solves the problem; a bridge is

built parallel with the river’s course, one side resting upon a granite

ledge, hewn in the side of the cliff, the other side suspended from rods

attached to the overhanging wall of the opposite cliff. Over this

construction the trains securely pass, while underneath the torrent

rushes on.

Before reaching the bridge our train stops, and as many as wish get out

and walk over, in order to obtain a good view of the awe-inspiring

grandeur of the Royal Gorge. It is truly a wonderful sight, and one we

will never forget. We do not tarry long to contemplate the scenery, for

a mean, commonplace shower of rain is falling, and we hurry to the train

to avoid getting wet.

Issuing from the cañon, we enter a broad and fertile valley, through

which flows the ever-present Arkansas River, and in a short time pass

through Cañon City, a town of considerable importance, having a

population of 3000, and the county seat of Fremont County. The State

penitentiary is located here, and near by are mineral springs of great

value, making it a favorite resort

[Illustration: THE ROYAL GORGE AND HANGING BRIDGE, GRAND CAÑON OF THE

ARKANSAS.]

for those in quest of retirement or health. We didn’t stop. The sight of

the broad, unfettered freedom of the fertile Arkansas Valley, with its

hundreds of acres of fine orchards and miles of magnificent grazing

land, is a pleasure and relief after so much cramped and rocky glory,

and gloomy, walled-up grandeur.

Pueblo is reached at 6.25 P. M. Eastern (4.25 P. M. Mountain) time, and

a stop of ten minutes is made for the purpose of changing engines. We

have not time to take in the city, but we disembark and take a look

about the depot, which is called Union Station, being the joint property

of five different roads and used by them all, namely, the Denver and Rio

Grande, Santa Fé, Missouri Pacific, Rock Island, and Union Pacific,

Denver and Gulf. The building is composed of red sandstone, a handsome

structure, and is commodious and convenient. Pueblo, though situated in

a valley or basin surrounded on three sides by distant mountain ranges,

enjoys an elevation of 4668 feet. It has a population of 40,000

inhabitants, is the centre of extensive mining industries and immense

railroad traffic. Because of its great, ever-smoking smelters, and

glowing furnaces and foundries, Pueblo is often called the “Pittsburgh

of the West.” The Arkansas River flows through the heart of the city,

but is not navigable, and its sloping banks are neatly walled to prevent

overflow in time of freshet. Bidding good-bye to our old new-found

friend, Rev. Brunton, and waving adieu to the 509 and the gallant men in

her cab who brought us safely through such scenes of weird, bewildering,

perilous grandeur, we start on our way again with engine 534, in charge

of Engineer Henry Hinman and Fireman George Courtly. Conductor Duey and

Brakemen Carlisle and Shoemaker go with us to Colorado Springs.

After leaving Pueblo we pass through an extensive oil district, where

many wells are in operation, and we are told the yield is very heavy. We

arrive in Colorado Springs at 8.20 P. M. Eastern (6.20 P. M. Mountain)

time, and escorted by Brothers Newman, Hart, Smith, and Mr. Hooper, we

start out to see the town. Colorado Springs is a model town. It is

quiet, clean, and dry; in fact, it is _very dry_, being entirely and

teetotally temperance. But this is a commendable trait; we find no

fault, and are all impressed with the morality and good order which

prevail. It is a healthy place; the houses are not crowded together. The

population is 12,000; the town has an elevation of 5982 feet, and covers

an area of four square miles. It is much resorted to by invalids, and

thousands, we are told, are yearly benefited by taking advantage of its

exhilarating atmosphere, favorable climatic conditions, and the pleasure

and enjoyment derived from interesting and beautiful natural

environments.

Soon after starting out we encounter Brother D. F. McPherson, secretary

and treasurer of Holy Cross Division 252, of Leadville, who joins us in

our rambles. After giving the quiet little city a pretty thorough

inspection, we are grouped upon a corner discussing where we shall go

next. “We have shown you the most cleanly and orderly town in the State

of Colorado,” remarks Mr. Hooper, “and now I would like to show you just

the reverse; we will take the next car and slip over to Oldtown.” In two

minutes the car comes, and getting aboard, a ride of two miles brings us

to the

[Illustration: ASCENT OF PIKE’S PEAK BY MANITOU AND PIKE’S PEAK RAILROAD

(COG WHEEL).]

neighboring town, where it seems every third door is a saloon and

gambling resort. Wherever we go there is turmoil and excitement. We see

no outbreaks of strife, but in these crowded gambling rooms we visit,

the swarthy miner and reckless stockman jostle one another in their

eagerness to reach the tempting roulette wheel or alluring faro table.

We can see they are excited, although they are calm, but it is the

calmness of suppressed emotion, and we are careful as we move among them

not to tread upon their toes; not that we are afraid to tramp their toes

if we want to, but we don’t want to; we didn’t come out West to make

trouble, so we are always careful what we do, if we are not so careful

where we go.

Getting enough of Oldtown, we board a car and are soon back in sedate

Colorado Springs and seek our train, that is sidetracked for occupancy

near the station. I size up the crowd as they file in and find some are

missing; they have dropped out of the ranks and escaped us, and--more

“unwritten history.” It is near midnight, all is dark and silent, and we

quietly seek our berths.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2d.

All are up about the usual time this morning, and after breakfast

Manager Wyman announces that those who wish to make the ascent of Pike’s

Peak will take the 8.30 train on the Colorado Springs and Manitou Branch

for Manitou, six miles away, where the Manitou and Pike’s Peak railway

station is located. The 8.30 train starts with about half of our party

on board. It is cloudy and we are afraid the weather will be unfavorable

for the trip. When we arrive at the station in Manitou we can see that

the great mountain is enveloped in fog and mist. We hesitate about going

up, but the station agent receives a telephone message from the summit,

saying the weather up there is clear, and the most of us decide to go.

And when at 9.40 we start, I notice the occupants of the car and find

the following members of our party aboard: Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and

Mrs. Maxwell, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Mrs. Horner, Mr. and Mrs.

Mitchell, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Dougherty, Mr. and Mrs.

Climenson, Mr. and Mrs. Foulon, Mr. and Mrs. Elder, Mr. and Mrs. Reilly,

Mr. and Miss Barrett and a lady friend, Miss Emma Leibing; Mr. Reagan

and a lady friend, Miss Jennie Heaney; Mrs. Mattson, Messrs. Waddington,

Haas, Taylor, Crispen, Denniston, Moore, Williams, Sloane, Kilgore,

Restein, and myself. The car is pushed by engine No. 4, in charge of

Engineer D. M. Jones. This little locomotive is an odd-looking thing,

built expressly for this line by the Baldwin Locomotive Works, of

Philadelphia, Pa. It has four cylinders and carries 200 pounds steam

pressure. It is constructed with two cog wheels underneath its centre,

which operate in corresponding cog rails placed in the centre of the

track, and has the appearance of being a strong and safe appliance.

Engine and car are not coupled together, but the engine in the rear

pushes the car ahead of it, which gives the tourist a fine, unobstructed

view of the scenery.

The grade averages almost 900 feet to the mile, which we ascend at the

rate of about five miles per hour. The road is almost nine miles in

length and we are one hour and forty-five minutes making the ascent,

having left

[Illustration: GATEWAY TO THE GARDEN OF THE GODS, COLORADO; PIKE’S PEAK

IN THE DISTANCE.]

the station at Manitou at 9.40 and arriving at the summit at 11.25. We

thought it was a slow trip and a tedious climb, but it wasn’t when we

consider the experience of some other people in connection with this

mountain several years ago. Ambition and desire are strong impulses in

human nature, often having more influence than a sense of duty.

When Major Zebulon M. Pike first sighted this mountain that bears his

name on the morning of November 13th, 1806, he had a burning desire to

give it a close inspection, and led his followers a ten days’ rugged

march before he reached its base. From this point he looked up to its

apparently inaccessible snow-crowned summit, and concluded it would be

impossible to scale its rocky, bouldered sides. Retiring from the

locality, he reported that he “had discovered a grand mountain peak,

bare of vegetation and covered with snow, but he believed that no human

being could ever ascend to its pinnacle.”

When, thirteen years afterwards, on the morning of July 13th, 1819, Dr.

Edwin James and his four comrades stood and gazed upon the terribly wild

and awful grandeur of this mighty mountain peak, they faced the same

conditions that caused the intrepid Pike to turn his back upon the scene

and withdraw: perpendicular cliffs whose walls no man can climb,

enormous rocks and giant boulders impossible to remove or surmount,

great chasms that cannot be crossed or bridged, deep, wild ravines that

seem to be impenetrable. All this they saw, yet they did not hesitate,

for they were filled with a wild ambition and burning desire to

accomplish what Pike had not dared to undertake. So they started, and

after two days of perilous hardship and toil they reached the summit,

on July 14th, 1819.

Their ambition was gratified, and so is ours. We did not come up for

pleasure, for there is no pleasure in it; the novelty of the thing

brought us here, and we find it novel enough. We wanted to stand on the

apex of these snow-bound, wind-swept, zero-blistered heights, 14,147

feet above the beating billows of the sea, and see what it is like. We

are finding out; it is colder than Chestnut Hill in midwinter. The snow

is six feet deep and the wind whistles a tune as it sweeps through

Colonel Layfield’s whiskers. The sun is shining when we get out of the

car, and with the snow whirling down our backs and tears streaming from

our eyes we spend three minutes looking down upon the far-away valley

scenery and the towns of Manitou and Colorado Springs. Then we enter the

old Government signal station, which has been turned into a curio shop,

telegraph office, post office, and restaurant. We find the temperature

more congenial, and put in the time examining and purchasing novelties

which are neither valuable or cheap, but are wanted for souvenirs. We

buy postal cards at ten cents each and mail them to friends, and send

telegrams at five cents per word. Manager Wyman sends a dispatch to

Ticket Receiver Stackhouse, Philadelphia, informing him of our

whereabouts and condition, but he couldn’t tell it all. The message

didn’t tell how near Waddie was to being fired off the train at Hell

Gate because he couldn’t find his ticket, as Restein had it in his

pocket; nor how eager Sloane was to chase the badger we saw running over

the rocks above Timber Line, but the conductor wouldn’t stop the train

to let him off.

[Illustration: ON PIKE’S PEAK: ALTITUDE 14,147 FEET.]

We have got enough of Pike’s Peak and are ready to go, but the engine is

away with the snow plow and we will have to wait for its return. We have

seen all there is to be seen and have bought what souvenirs we want. My

last purchase was a tissue-paper napkin; I gave thirty cents for it, but

had a cup of coffee and a sandwich thrown in. Our engine has returned

and we go out to get in the car. The sun is hidden by a great dark

cloud, the wind blows harder than ever, and the car is locked up. A

photographer is on hand with his outfit and wants to take a picture;

somebody ought to throw him over the precipice. We are huddled about the

end of the car like a tempest-stricken flock outside a sheepfold gate,

shivering and shaking in the blast. As the picture fiend adjusts the

camera it begins to snow; in thirty seconds we are in a raging blizzard,

the instrument snaps and the car door is unlocked, but before we all get

inside many of us are covered with snow.

We are in the storm until we get below Timber Line, and the force of the

wind drives the snow across the car as it sifts through the ventilators

and in around the windows, and some of us are feeling pretty groggy. I

do not like the sensation; when I speak I talk through my hat, and my

ear drums feel ready to burst. When I go up so high again I want to go

to stay; there may be such a thing as becoming acclimated.

The descent is made in a careful manner, with the engine in front. We

arrive safely in Manitou at 1.40 P. M., and the party scatters. Some

return to Colorado Springs and some drive through the Garden of the

Gods. Many who did not ascend the peak have had a good time visiting

other interesting places, and tell interesting stories of the

remarkable things they saw. The little burros or donkeys are in evidence

everywhere, and several of our people got their photos taken seated on

these cute little animals with the Balance Rock in the background. Some

of the timid ladies of our party, I am told, are shy of these meek

little creatures, saying they look fierce and dangerous because their

ears are so large. The only danger is in their hind feet, for they can

kick very quick and hard, injuring one another sometimes in this way

when they get to frolicking, which they often do.

Brother Schuler was in one of the carriages that drove through the

“Garden of the Gods” to-day, and it is interesting to hear him relate in

his inimitable manner the many curious things to be seen. A heavy

thunder and hail storm descended upon Manitou this afternoon, with

another blizzard on the peak, and the weather has become quite cool.

Mrs. E. T. Postlewaite took dinner with us to-day as a guest of Brother

and Mrs. Springer. Our people are scattered this evening, amusing

themselves in various ways. Brothers Brown, Horner, and myself take a

stroll after dinner. We stop at the Antlers Hotel, that is well worth a

visit, being one of the finest-equipped hotels we have seen in our

travels.

We were introduced to the chief of police of the city and kindly shown

the large, interesting, and gruesome collection in the Rogues’ Gallery,

pictures of some of the most noted crooks and renegades that ever

infested the West, along with weapons and tools of all descriptions that

were used in their murderous and nefarious business. One set of burglar

implements, in particular, containing one hundred and fifty-five pieces,

that had been

[Illustration: BRIDE AND GROOM AT BALANCE ROCK, GARDEN OF THE GODS,

COLORADO.]

captured from a suspect by the name of Jerome Markle, we find very

interesting; it is said to be the largest and most complete burglar’s

outfit ever captured. Returning to the train about 9.30, we are glad to

meet W. E. Frenaye, Esq., city editor of the Colorado Springs _Gazette_,

who has dropped in on us for a friendly chat. Mr. Frenaye was connected

with Assistant General Passenger Agent Boyd’s office at one time, and is

an old friend of Brother Maxwell. Being scheduled to leave here at 2

o’clock A. M., we all turn in at a reasonable hour.

THURSDAY, JUNE 3d.

Getting up this morning at six o’clock, I find we are entering Denver.

We have engine 570, Engineer Wm. Jenness, Fireman W. C. Lawhead,

Conductor I. Larsen, Brakemen Cunningforth and McGinn. Soon as the train

stops, Mrs. Terry and Mrs. Shaw strike off in search of the post office,

for they are expecting letters from home. Our train is sidetracked in

the yard and Brother Terry and I walk over to the station, a short

distance away, and look around. It is pretty quiet; the great city has

not wakened up to the business of the day and the railroads haven’t

commenced their bustle and confusion. This is a large station, one of

the finest we have seen in the West; twelve railroads use it, which

diverge from here in all directions and run to all parts of the United

States. This is what a railroad time table tells us that I have just

picked up. It also tells us that Denver is considerable of a town, that

it is the county seat of Arapahoe County and the capital of the State of

Colorado. It enjoys an altitude of 5196 feet and has a population of

165,000 inhabitants.

We return to the train and find breakfast waiting. While we are at

breakfast the ladies return from the post office; they were too early to

get letters, for the office wasn’t open, but they were loaded with

souvenirs they had procured on the way. After breakfast we are notified

to remove all stuff from our sections to the baggage car, as the cars

are to be cleaned. This is a notice that isn’t calculated to sweeten

temper. It has been served on us several times since we started from

home, and we know what an annoyance it is, but we rejoice to know this

is the last time we will suffer the inconvenience.

After this task is accomplished a number of us take a 25-mile ride

around the city on the “Seeing Denver” trolley line. It is a delightful

ride, and in this way we see many interesting features of the “Queen

City of the Plains.” The car we are on is No. 111, in charge of Motorman

Ewell and Conductor F. F. Porter. Mr. H. Given accompanies the car and

points out and explains interesting localities and places. We can see

that the educational facilities of Denver are up to date. Our attention

is called to Westminster University, located on a knoll just beyond the

city limits, said to be one of the finest institutions of learning in

the State. We pass near the Louisa M. Alcott Public School, one of the

finest public buildings we have ever seen. Having reached the suburbs we

are out amongst cultivated fields, and Mr. Given, in speaking of the

fertility of Colorado soil and the abundance of their crops, called our

attention to the rich growth of the alfalfa grass in a field close at

hand. At the utterance of the word _alfalfa_ a protest went up from the

party; they had had all the alfalfa they wanted in Texas, and begged Mr.

Given to give them no

[Illustration: MANITOU SPRINGS, COLORADO.]

more. Manager Wyman explained why our people dislike the name of

alfalfa. Mr. Given said he could but acknowledge that we had just

reasons to boycott the name, and thought he could give us some

information that would increase our dislike the more. “Perhaps you do

not know,” he continues, “that there are hundreds of tons of alfalfa

leaves shipped yearly from Colorado to New York to adulterate the tea

you drink?” This is certainly news to us; it is something we did not

know, nor are we sure of it yet, notwithstanding Mr. Given’s assertion;

nevertheless it may be true.

We cross the South Fork of the Platte River, that flows through the

centre of the town, from which the city’s supply of water is taken, and

are shown the Public Park, containing four hundred acres, that is kept

up by a tax on the city property owners amounting to $125,000 a year.

Our attention is directed to the towering smokestack of the Omaha and

Giant Smelter, which rises to the height of 352 feet and is said to be

the highest chimney in the world. This is one of the most extensive

smelters in America, and since its erection, a trifle over twelve years

ago, it has treated ore amounting to nearly $300,000,000. In addition to

the Omaha and Giant Smelter there are a number of other plants in active

operation. The ores treated are gold, silver, copper, and lead. The

total product of the Denver smelting industry amounts to $40,000,000 per

year.

Denver is six by ten miles in extent, and I think we rode all the way

around it and part way through it. It is a city of beautiful,

substantial residences and superb public buildings, the most noticeable

being the State Capitol Building, completed in 1895 and costing

$2,550,000.

The streets of this great city are not in as clean a condition as they

might be; mud in many places is ankle deep, caused, Mr. Given informs

us, by the recent heavy rains turning the dust into mud. What an awful

dusty city it must be when not muddy; we imagine an occasional heavy

shower is a great relief, for dust is a far greater evil than mud. We

would quietly suggest to the City Fathers of this great metropolis, for

the sake of the health and comfort of their citizens and the pleasure

and convenience of visitors, that they eliminate the dust from their

town by scraping up and carting to the dump the mud from the streets,

through which pedestrians are forced to wade every time it rains.

Our trolley ride finished, we alight at Brown’s Palace Hotel. This

magnificent structure, covering an entire block, ten stories in height,

built of brown sandstone, interior finished in Mexican onyx, and costing

the neat little sum of $2,000,000, is the pride of Denver. Here “The H.

J. Mayham Investment Company” has its headquarters in a suite of offices

on the first floor. We are kindly received by Mr. W. H. Coombs, a

representative of the company, who loads us down with illustrated and

descriptive books and pamphlets.

It is now past noon, and from here our party scatters. Mrs. Shaw desires

to visit Mrs. Edward Bicking, formerly Miss Madeline Ramsey, of West

Chester, Pa., who is living in or near Denver. We consult a directory

that gives Mr. Bicking’s address as 313 Ashland Avenue, Highlands. We

immediately take a car, and after a lengthy ride arrive at the given

address only to find they had moved to Golden, 15 miles west of Denver.

Returning to the Union Depot, we take the 3.10 train on the Union

Pacific, Denver and Gulf Railway, and arrive in Golden after a pleasant

ride of forty-five minutes. We have no difficulty in finding the

pleasant home of Mr. Bicking, where we meet with a cordial welcome. They

persuade us to remain over night with them and we enjoy our visit very

much. Mr. Bicking operates a large paper mill, and having no competition

does a large and thriving business. Golden is a pleasant, healthy town,

having an elevation of 5655 feet. It has about 3000 population and until

1868 was the capital of Colorado. It is situated on Clear Creek, a fine

mountain stream, and near the entrance to the famous Clear Creek Cañon.

It is surrounded by towering cliffs and great mountain ranges, amongst

which it quietly nestles.

Years ago Golden was a stirring mining camp, but the excitement and

bustle of the mining industry has been moved farther up the cañon,

leaving this community in comparative quiet. Last July a cloudburst

occurred in the mountains, and the flood, rushing down the cañon, swept

through the town of Golden, destroying much property and drowning

several persons. We took a walk in the evening with Mr. and Mrs. Bicking

around the town and saw many traces of the awfully destructive deluge.

I learned before leaving Denver this afternoon that a trip for to-morrow

had been planned for our party, over the Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf

Railway, up Clear Creek Cañon to Silver Plume, 54 miles from Denver. The

train is due in Golden at nine o’clock. It is our purpose to meet it and

join the party. Having spent a very pleasant afternoon and evening, we

retired about ten o’clock.

FRIDAY, JUNE 4th.

Having enjoyed a good night’s rest, we arose about seven o’clock, and

after breakfast Mr. Bicking escorted us over his mill, which is only a

short distance from the pleasant cottage in which they reside. The time

arriving for us to start for the station, we bid adieu to our kind

friends and join our party on the train under the escort of F. M. Shaw,

traveling agent of the Union Pacific, Denver and Gulf Railway, bound for

Silver Plume, up the picturesque Clear Creek Cañon, and over the Great

Loop. We have U. P. D. & G. Ry. engine No. 7, with Engineer Si Allen at

the throttle. The train is in charge of Conductor John W. Ryan, a member

of Denver Division 44, who is an old friend of Brother Reagan’s. The two

had not met for years, and the reunion was a happy one. It was through

the efforts of Conductor Ryan that we are given this pleasant trip

to-day.

Leaving Golden, we enter the wilds of Clear Creek Cañon, similar in many

respects to Eagle River Cañon, the mighty sloping hills on either side

being honeycombed with mines. In places the cañon is very narrow; the

rugged walls overhanging the tracks almost meet at the top, a thousand

feet above. The stream we follow is a shallow one, and here and there we

catch sight of a prospector wading in the water with his shovel and pan,

washing the sand he scoops up from the bottom of the creek in the hope

of finding grains of gold. A diligent prospector, we are told, realizes

in this manner from two to ten dollars per day. For 22 miles we follow

the windings of Clear Creek up through this narrow, rocky gorge, and

then the cañon terminates in an open, level

[Illustration: BACHELORS AND BURROS IN THE GARDEN OF THE GODS.]

plateau of about one hundred acres, surrounded by seamed and rugged

mountains, grinning with prospectors’ pits and the open mouths of mines.

Here is located the pretty little mining town of Idaho Springs, at an

elevation of 7543 feet. We make a stop of ten minutes and get out to

look around. We run right along the edge of the creek and several of the

boys look for gold in the sand of the shallow water, but I hear of none

being found. It is cloudy, a light rain is falling, and having reached a

pretty high altitude the wind is chilly. Leaving Idaho Springs the open

observation car is almost deserted, the closed coaches being far more

comfortable, the most of our people caring more for comfort than for

scenery. Thirteen miles from Idaho Springs we pass through Georgetown, a

mining town of considerable size. Here we commence the Great Loop

ascension; the railway winding around the mountain crosses itself at one

point, and looking down we see nearly 200 feet beneath us the track

where we had been but a short time before. Thus we climb until we reach

Silver Plume, at an elevation of 9176 feet, arriving there at 12.20

Mountain time.

Leaving the train, we visit the Victoria Tunnel and Mendota Mine. Under

the escort of the mine boss the majority of the party enter the mine,

each one bearing a lighted candle, for the tunnel is dark as a dungeon.

This tunnel is hewn from the solid rock and extends for 2000 feet

straight into the mountain side before the rich vein of silver ore is

reached. When we reach the end of the tunnel we are almost directly

under the centre of the peak, a thousand feet under the surface of the

ground. After procuring a few small pieces of ore as souvenirs we

retraced our steps and were glad to get out into open daylight once

more. On our return to the train we encountered a light snow squall. We

leave Silver Plume at 2.15 o’clock for return trip, with Brothers

Maxwell, Reagan, and Agent Shaw on the cow-catcher. A donkey on the

track sees us coming, flops his left ear, switches his tail, and wisely

steps aside. We arrive safely in Denver at six o’clock and find dinner

waiting in our dining car, to which we all ably respond, feeling that in

McDonald and his worthy attachés we have valued friends. After dinner

our people scattered over the city, amusing themselves in various ways,

and not having furnished the writer with reports of their experience, he

can but note, “unwritten history.”

Brother F. H. Conboy, of Division 44, has kindly made arrangements with

the managers of the Overland Park races to admit members of our party at

reduced rates, and a number talk of attending the races to-morrow should

the weather prove favorable. We are not very highly impressed with this

climate at the present time, for it is entirely too cold and damp to be

agreeable.

SATURDAY, JUNE 5th.

According to our original itinerary this is the day we should arrive in

Philadelphia, yet here we are at Denver, in the midst of as disagreeable

a spell of weather, we are told, as ever was known here. Each afternoon

since we have been here it has snowed on the mountains and rained in the

valleys; heavy wraps and overcoats are worn by our people when they

venture away from the train. “This is not a sample of Colorado weather,”

I hear Charlie Hooper declare, and we are all very glad it isn’t, for

the sake of the people who have to stay here; we are not going to remain

much longer, and wouldn’t be here now, only for the irrepressible

tantrums of the Rio Grande River. Our people scatter again to-day, and I

cannot tell where they went or what they saw.

Mrs. Shaw and myself visited an old friend and former neighbor, David

Cannon, on his beautiful Broadway dairy ranch, six miles south of

Denver. An electric line runs within half a mile of his residence. We

were very cordially received and spent a pleasant day. We also visited

the splendid Windsor ranch, owned by Major Dubois, ex-mayor of

Leadville, and operated by Messrs. Penrose and Cannon. We met the Major

and Miss Dubois and were very kindly treated by them. The Windsor and

Broadway dairy farms comprise a fine, beautiful, level tract of land,

containing 1000 acres in a highly improved condition. It commenced to

rain again about three o’clock and we returned to the city in a cold,

beating storm. Mrs. Bicking, who was with us, remarked that in the four

years of her residence in Colorado she had, heretofore, experienced no

such weather as this.

The rain had ceased when we reached our train, about five o’clock. Found

most of our company there and photo artists Stanton and Warren with

their outfit, preparing to picture the train and party. We forthwith

arrange ourselves in a group about the end of the train in a manner

according to the instructions of the artists. Mrs. Bicking is requested

to join the group and her little son, Austin, is placed upon the

platform of the car. Our dinner this evening was an interesting and

happy occasion. Brother Reagan’s friend, Conductor John Ryan, and his

family were guests, and during the repast Mr. Ryan presented Brother

Reagan with a handsome floral tribute, representing a keystone, composed

of roses and carnations, with inscription in immortelles: “From Jack to

John, who were Boys Together.” Below the inscription, artistically

wrought with the same kind of flowers, is a representation of clasped

hands. Brothers Reagan and Ryan were boys together, grew up and learned

railroading together, but have been separated for about eighteen years.

The event was a happy one and will be long remembered by those who

participated. A few of our people attended the Overland Park races

to-day, but the weather was unfavorable for the sport. Brother Crispin

met an old schoolmate this afternoon, Mr. J. H. Harris, who is connected

with the inspection department of the Denver and Rio Grande Road. Mr.

Harris took charge of Brother Crispin and several others and showed them

a good time.

We are scheduled to leave here at midnight, and conclude to remain up

till we start. There is usually an entertaining time in the smoker and

the hours pass quickly away. We start promptly at 2.01 A. M. Eastern

(12.01 A. M. Mountain) time over the Burlington and Missouri River

Railroad, known as the “Burlington Route,” with B. & M. engine 317,

Engineer W. Fuller, Fireman C. Babcock, Conductor C. W. Bronson,

Brakeman E. Q. Robie. As guests we have with us leaving Denver

Trainmaster J. F. Kenyon and Traveling Engineer C. A. Dickson. It is now

past midnight; we have said goodbye to the kind friends who remained

with us till the start, and as we leave the great city of Denver behind

us we feel both glad and sorry; glad that we are once more speeding

toward our Eastern homes, but sorry to lose sight of the matchless

Colorado scenery and part with our kind and generous Colorado friends.

The efforts made to show us a good time by the kind people of Denver and

by the railway officials of the various lines are highly appreciated by

each member of the party. Charlie Hooper will be remembered so long as

memory of the trip shall last; may his appetite never grow less nor his

shadow ever shrink.

SUNDAY, JUNE 6th.

Got up this morning about seven o’clock and found we were approaching

McCook, Neb., having crossed the line from Colorado into Nebraska during

the night at a point about 80 miles west of McCook. Conductor Bronson

and Brakeman Robie are members of Harvey Division No. 95, of McCook.

They have intimated that we may expect a reception from the members of

that division on our arrival at McCook; this information having been

given out last evening, the most of our people are up when the train

stops in McCook at ten minutes past seven, and we are met by a large

delegation of brothers of Division 95 with their wives and daughters,

who give us a cordial, happy greeting. The McCook Band is on hand and

renders delightful music, and the hour allowed us here passes quickly

away. B. & M. engine 232, in charge of Engineer J. E. Sanborn and fired

by Charlie Williams, has been selected to draw us from McCook to

Hastings, a distance of 132 miles. Engineer Sanborn is a member of

Harvey Division 95, having at one time been a conductor, and has the

232 handsomely decorated with flags and flowers in honor of the

occasion. On each side of the cab beneath the windows are the letters

“O. R. C.,” surrounded by the emblem of the order. The engine is much

admired by the members of our party, and snap-shots are taken by

Brothers Restein and Foster.

Left McCook at 10.00 Eastern (9.00 Central) time. On leaving McCook time

changes from Mountain to Central, and we now run one hour behind Eastern

time. From McCook to Hastings we have with us as guests Brothers V. H.

Halliday, F. Kendler, and C. E. Pope, who are members of the

entertainment committee from Division 95, and the following ladies of

McCook: Mrs. C. W. Bronson, Mrs. V. H. Halliday, Mrs. F. Kendler, Mrs.

C. E. Pope, Mrs. Beyer, Miss Grace Sanborn, and Miss Mabel Jordon. We

have a pleasant entertainment in the combined car, during which Mrs.

Bronson and Miss Sanborn sing in a charming manner several choice

selections. Arriving in Hastings at twelve o’clock, noon, we make a halt

of five minutes to change engines, and bidding adieu to the kind friends

of McCook who gave us such a royal greeting, we continue on our way with

engine 227, Engineer H. L. Beaty, Fireman F. C. Parkerson, Conductor J.

G. Chase, Brakeman Fred. Sharpe. Our guests are Brothers M. E. Shepard,

of Claude Champion Division No. 227, of Lincoln, Neb., M. E. Crane, of

Creston Division No. 21, of Creston, Iowa, and Trainmaster E. W. Carter.

At Fairmount, 43 miles from Hastings, we make a short stop to allow some

guests to get aboard; they are Brothers W. B. Morledge, J. H. Burns, of

Division 227,

[Illustration: “WHO ARE WE? WHO ARE WE? P. P. C.! COOKS, WAITERS, AND

PORTERS OF THE O. R. C.!”]

[Illustration: THE “232.” McCOOK, NEBRASKA.]

W. J. Robinson, of Omaha Division 126, and Chief Dispatcher C. L. Eaton.

Brother Burns is entitled to special mention, being introduced to us as

“the largest conductor on the Burlington Route. He is 6 feet 1 inch tall

and weighs 290 pounds.” “If we only had ‘Big Frank,’ of the New York

Division, with us,” says Brother Denniston, “we could beat that by 1

inch and 10 pounds.”

“While we are not able to produce our largest conductor to compare him

with yours,” spoke up Manager Wyman, “we have with us one who enjoys the

distinction of being the smallest conductor on the Pennsylvania Railroad

System, being but 5 feet 3 inches in height and weighing only 109

pounds. I take pleasure in introducing you to Brother Charles L.

Springer.” Brother Springer took the joke good-naturedly and responds in

a pleasant manner, telling the advantage of being small; that his size

enables him to get through places with ease where large men dare not

attempt to go. We notice that Conductor Chase is a great favorite with

the ladies of our party, who are trying to rob his uniform coat of its

pretty golden buttons, that they covet for souvenirs. A stop of half an

hour is made at Lincoln, where we arrive at three o’clock. Conductor

Chase, to save his coat, procures a number of uniform buttons and

distributes them among the ladies. Division 227 adjourned meeting this

afternoon to meet us at the station on our arrival, an action very much

appreciated by our boys, and the half hour was spent in pleasant

greetings. The “boys,” the cooks, waiters, and porters, and the ladies

gave their yells in turn as the time came for us to leave, and the

effort of the ladies was loudly applauded.

We leave Lincoln with the same engine and crew that brought us from

Hastings, and they take us to Pacific Junction, a run of 177 miles. We

feel that we are in good hands, for Conductor J. G. Chase was selected

to take charge, from Pacific Junction to Hastings, of the Mayham

Special, that on February 15th and 16th, 1897, broke the world’s record

for long-distance running, having made the run from Chicago to Denver, a

distance of 1025 miles, in 1047 minutes. Engine 227 that is now pulling

us drew the special from Lincoln to Hastings, a distance of 96 miles, in

109 minutes, a speed of about 53 miles per hour. This did not quite

reach the average rate of speed made on the trip, which was 58¾ miles

per hour. Leaving Lincoln we have with us as additional guests Brothers

W. C. McDermott and C. Kast, of Division 227, and Engineer F. B. Arnold.

We arrive in Omaha at 5.15 P. M., and within ten minutes after our

arrival we are speeding through the city on electric cars, under the

escort of Brother W. J. Robinson and Superintendent of Street Car

Service T. H. Todhunter, who has placed two fine open trolley cars at

our service and personally directs their movements, switching us from

one thoroughfare to another until almost the entire city is traversed.

It is a pleasant afternoon and we greatly enjoy the delightful ride

through this, one of the greatest cities of the West, noted for its

rapid growth, having increased from a population of 30,518 in 1880 to

140,452 in 1890, and we are told that present indications point to the

likelihood of it reaching 300,000 in time for the census of 1900.

Omaha is up to date in all that pertains to the health, comfort, and

welfare of her citizens, and we are all favorably impressed with her

clean streets, pleasant homes, and fine, substantial public buildings.

Omaha has a curfew law, recently established, the beneficent effects of

which are already noticed and highly recommended. It keeps off the

streets after nine o’clock at night boys and girls under sixteen years

of age, unless accompanied by parents or guardians.

We have consumed more time in doing the town of Omaha than was intended,

and consequently, when we leave at 7.05 we are thirty-five minutes late

on our schedule; but we are on a line noted for its “fast time,” and

probably the delay will be made up. A number of the boys from Creston

Division No. 21 and their ladies came up to Omaha to meet us this

afternoon, and return with us to Creston.

We have the pleasure of having with us L. H. Wright, C. C. of No. 21,

Mr. and Mrs. R. McCoy, Mr. and Mrs. J. W. Smelley, Mr. and Mrs. J. C.

Felker, Mr. and Mrs. Nugent, Mr. and Miss Bradey, Mr. Donoven, Train

Dispatcher Ed. Robeson, Master Mechanic G. L. Beckwith, J. W. Fedder and

mother, Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, F. M. Price, Miss Galeger, Miss Thompson,

Miss Gaul, Miss Gaven, Miss Obine. Leaving Omaha we do not cross the

Missouri River and enter Iowa via Council Bluffs, but follow the river

south for 26 miles to Plattsmouth, where we cross the turbid stream on a

substantial bridge and enter Iowa at Pacific Junction, having traversed

the southern border of the State of Nebraska for 366 miles. We saw a

fine, level country, dotted with neat, substantial farm buildings, and

judging from the many well-filled cribs of last year’s corn, it must be

a country extremely rich in agricultural products.

At Pacific Junction a change of engines and crews is made, and bidding

adieu to good-hearted, good-natured Captain Chase and his genial crew,

we continue on our way with C. B. & Q. engine 318, in charge of Engineer

George Goodrich and Fireman T. H. Hillis, conducted by M. Farrell, whose

brakemen are T. A. McDonald and T. Munson, who will take us to Creston,

a run of 86 miles. Thirty-five miles from Pacific Junction we make a

short stop at Redwood, and receive additional guests in the persons of

Division Superintendent J. H. Duggan, Mr. Frank Gillman, J. B. Kirsh,

chief engineer of Creston Division No. 112, B. of L. E., and Conductor

T. G. Snair. We have now about thirty-five guests aboard and our train

is pretty well filled up. It seems to be an off Sunday with many of the

good people along the line, and they have turned out to show us a good

time, and they can never guess how much their efforts are appreciated.

It is 10.15 P. M. when we arrive in Creston, and as we approach the

station Superintendent Duggan, who has been watching the time, informs

us that our train has covered the last 36 miles in forty-two minutes. A

large bonfire is burning on an open lot near the station, and the

juvenile band of Creston is playing a stirring piece when our train

comes to a halt. There is a large crowd on hand to greet us, and the

forty-five minutes we remain among them passes quickly and pleasantly

away. We bid good-bye to our many new-found friends, and at 11.02 P. M.

leave Creston with C. B. & Q. engine 232, with Engineer J. Consodine at

the throttle, and conducted by G. W. Yetts. The brakemen are W. D.

Willits and G. A. Bessey, which crew takes us to Burlington, 190 miles.

The “232” was also on the famous Mayham Special from Creston to Red

Oak, and made a record of 62½ miles per hour. Conductor Yetts had

charge of the train from Burlington to Creston.

We have had a full day, and every one of the party feels that we have

been honored by the demonstrations of good-fellowship that have marked

our progress through the States of Nebraska and Iowa. We are all very

tired to-night; this is the thirtieth day of our outing; each day a

picnic and every night a circus. It is now drawing near the midnight

hour, and as we steam away from the hospitable, wide-awake little town

of Creston, with her bonfire and her band, our sincere wish is that the

sun of prosperity may ever shine upon her. The combined car has been

vacated and the refreshment corner is deserted; George H. Anderson, the

hardest-worked man in the outfit, is making up his bed, Brother Sparks’

El Paso pup has ceased his whining and now is snoring, and Sister

Matthews’ Denver magpie for once in its life is silent. These things I

notice as I quietly leave the smoker and make my way to little No. 3, in

the “Marco.”

MONDAY, JUNE 7th.

Getting up this morning about six o’clock, I find we are in Illinois,

having crossed the Mississippi River during the night at Burlington,

where a change of engines was made. We now have C. B. & Q. engine 511,

handled by Engineer D. Sullivan and fired by J. Watson. Conductor W. L.

Boydston, a member of Galesburg Division No. 83, has charge of our

train, whose brakemen are J. M. Forsythe and T. G. White. This engine

and crew will run us to Chicago, a distance of 206 miles. Illinois is a

rich agricultural State, whose well-cultivated farms and fine buildings

exhibit a high degree of prosperity and thrift. Arriving in Chicago at

8.45 our people scatter to take in the sights of the city as best suit

their individual inclinations. I have no knowledge as to where they went

or what they saw, but the inference is that everybody was busy, for it

is a physical impossibility for a person to remain still in this town;

such hustling, aggressive activity I never saw before. If you attempt to

saunter or stop to look you are the victim of a hundred bumps a minute;

you’ve got to get in the race and keep going, or climb a tree.

On our arrival Mrs. S. and I were met by Mrs. Ray Melchor, Mrs. Shaw’s

sister, a resident of the city, who took charge of us, and I am glad she

assumed the responsibility, for I never felt more in need of a guardian

in my life than I did when in the heart of this mighty metropolis with

its great sky-scraping buildings and tearing cyclone of humanity. Mrs.

Melchor proved an excellent guide, and showed us more of this wonderful

town than one would think possible in the few hours allotted us, besides

giving us a delightful carriage ride along the lake front and through

Jackson and Washington Parks. We also visited Lincoln Park and saw the

famous Ferris Wheel. Mrs. Melchor returned with us to the train and

accompanied us as far as the suburban station of Englewood, where the

train was stopped to allow her to alight. We left Chicago at 5.40 P. M.

on the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne and Chicago Line, with P. Ft. W. & C.

engine 147, Engineer Frank Higgins, Fireman Robt. Giffin, Conductor M.

J. Prindiville, Brakeman H. B. Walton, and Flagman Geo. Roberts, who

take us to Ft. Wayne, 148 miles. Near Whiting, a short distance beyond

the limits of Chicago, we cross the line and enter Indiana, which also

has the appearance of being a rich agricultural State.

In the evening an interesting meeting is held in the smoking car, and

presided over by Brother Geo. Brown, for the purpose of effecting a

permanent club, to be composed of the members of the Pennsylvania

Railroad conductors’ excursion party. Selecting a name leads to

considerable discussion, until Brother Denniston suggests the “Golden

Gate Club,” which is unanimously adopted. The following brothers are

elected officers of the club: President, C. E. Wyman; vice-president, L.

E. Sheppard; secretary and treasurer, W. J. Maxwell. Pullman conductors

Suter and McDonald are admitted as honorary members. The meeting, which

lasted from 8.30 to 9.20 P. M., is succeeded by the admission to the car

of a delegation of the ladies, led by Sister Reilly, who introduces an

entertaining game called “The California Pets,” or “Dead Hand,” which

consists of an outstretched sheet, around which sit as many as can

conveniently do so, with their hands beneath the sheet, and guess the

names of articles that they cannot see, which are passed from one to the

other. The game continues for some time and produces a great deal of

merriment, until an article is passed to Miss Ella that causes her to

shriek with fright. She quickly passes it to Brother Reagan, who turns

pale and shudders as though he had seen a ghost; he in turn tosses it to

Brother Williams, who is thrown into a spasm when he grasps the nasty

thing, and flings it into Brother McCarty’s lap, who clutches it, drops

it, exclaims “Hell!” jumps up, all at the same time, and makes a break

for the door. It was only a kid glove that Mrs. Reilly had filled with

sand and soaked in ice water, that felt to the touch like the cold and

clammy hand of a corpse.

The rear car “Orchis” was christened “Hogan’s Alley” in the early stages

of our trip, because of the spirit of fun and frolic that at times ran

rampant there. To-day, while Brother Houston was visiting his brother in

Chicago, who is connected with a publishing house, he procured a number

of large cards with “Hogan’s Alley” printed upon them, and hung them up

through the car. There were also two swinging from the rear platform

when the train left Chicago, much to the amusement of the people who

were gathered at the station to see us off.

We reach Ft. Wayne at 9.30 P. M., and after a delay of a few minutes

changing engines, start on our way again with P. Ft. W. & C. engine 272,

Engineer M. Shea, Fireman E. Blanchard, Conductor T. J. Kanaga, Brakemen

W. B. Kelley and A. C. Kyle, who take us to Crestline, Ohio, 132 miles.

At the little station of Dixon, 20 miles east of Ft. Wayne, we cross the

State line and enter Ohio. We are drawing nearer home and all feel very

glad, although it will be like the breaking up of a large and happy

family for us to separate. We expect to reach Pittsburgh early in the

morning, and Brothers Haas and Schuler are saying goodbye, for Haas

leaves us at Allegheny City and Schuler at Pittsburgh. It is approaching

midnight, and as we skim across the State of Ohio we retire to our

little beds and are soon fast asleep, lulled into repose by the soothing

hum and motion of the train, that we have learned to regard as a great

help to pleasant dreams and unbroken slumber.

TUESDAY, JUNE 8th.

Getting up this morning about 5.30, I find we are approaching Allegheny

City. It is a wet, foggy morning, and the Ohio River, in sight of which

we are running, is high and muddy. We had changed engines at Crestline

during the night, and now have P. Ft. W. & C. engine No. 288, Engineer

Geo. Hood, Fireman F. Eberly, Conductor E. W. Davis, Brakemen E. W.

Simpson and J. W. Syms, who take us into Pittsburgh, a run of 188 miles.

When we stop in Allegheny City at six o’clock quite a number are astir

to bid Brother Haas adieu; five minutes later we stop in Pittsburgh and

part with Brother Schuler. Brother Sloane also leaves us here, as he has

business to transact in the “Smoky City” before coming East.

Time changes here from Central to Eastern, one hour later, and we leave

Pittsburgh at 7.17 A. M. with P. R. R. engine 1631, with Engineer M.

Daily and Fireman S. K. Dobson in the cab. Our conductor is N. E. Garber

and Brakemen W. J. Maxwell and Frank Dick. This crew runs us to Altoona,

a distance of 117 miles, where we arrive at 10.35. After a delay of five

minutes in changing engines we start on our way again with P. R. R.

engine 646, in charge of Engineer H. Funk and Fireman E. Wilson. J. R.

Bockus is conducting the train, whose brakemen are G. H. Free and G. W.

Miller. Our train stops at Tyrone, 15 miles east of Altoona, to allow

Brother and Mrs. Matthews to get off. They are obliged to leave us at

this point, for they had left their little four-year-old daughter here

in the care of relatives until their return and are longing to clasp

Baby Ellie once more in their arms. This is a busy day with the members

of the party and an interesting one for the porters. In a neat and

characteristic speech Brother Reagan, in behalf of the lady occupants of

the “Marco,” presents Dennis Jackson with a substantial token of their

appreciation of his kindness and courtesy toward them during the trip,

they always finding him ready and willing to obey and oblige; and Dennis

deserves their generous remembrance. Brother Sheppard, in behalf of the

occupants of the “Milton,” holds up Dick Pettus in the same manner and

for the same purpose, and presents him with a generous token of their

regard. Physically Dick is a giant, and all who know him will testify

that he is as good-natured and kind as he is big and strong. The

residents of “Hogan’s Alley” (“Orchis”) surround George Custis, while

Brother Denniston in an eloquent speech tells him how good he is and how

his goodness has been appreciated by the restive but good-natured and

harmless inhabitants of this noted quarter, who desire to show their

regard for the service he has rendered them by giving him a token of

remembrance. George is worthy of their generosity, and quietly accepts

the donation, saying to me as I pass him, “I often thought of the

warning you gave me the day we started out.”

Arriving in Harrisburg at 1.37 P. M. we bid adieu to Brothers Gilliland,

Haefner, Smith, and their wives, also Brother McCarty, who leave us at

this point, and changing engines for the last time we proceed on our way

again with P. R. R. engine 296, Engineer H. B. Humphreys, Fireman J.

Mahan, Conductor Dan. Harvey, Brakeman George Wilson. We are met in

Harrisburg by a delegation from Philadelphia, composed of the

following-named gentlemen, who constitute a Welcome Home Committee:

Brothers John Mooney, Budd Roulon, George Stultz, Tony Hughes, Frank

Vandyke, of West Philadelphia Division 162; J. Kelly and J. P. Anchor,

of Camden Division 170; Trainmaster J. Thompson, Operator C. Devinney,

and Baggagemaster Ed. Lynch, who accompany us to Philadelphia. They

present each one of our party with a very pretty little white badge

bearing the initials “O. R. C.” in monogram and the inscription “Welcome

Home” in golden letters. We have a number of badges and innumerable

souvenirs that have been gathered on the trip, but not one among them

all will be more highly prized than the little “Welcome Home” badge that

bears silent but eloquent testimony to the deep fraternal sentiment that

rejoices in our safe arrival home.

We have had a most wonderful trip; have traveled almost 9000 miles; no

one has been injured and no one seriously sick. A prairie dog and a jack

rabbit, so far as we can learn, are the only victims that met death by

our train. We have crossed eighteen States and Territories, encountered

no train robbers, experienced no wrecks, not having on a car during all

our journey so much as a hot box or flat wheel.

Brother Layfield has been diligently obtaining punch cuts of the

conductors he has met _en route_, and succeeded in obtaining

forty-eight. Had they all been equipped with their punch that he met he

would have had many more. The Colonel has been collecting punch marks

for several years, and now has three hundred and fifty, nicely arranged

in an album designed for the purpose. We are pained to learn that

Brother Charles Larue, of Camden Division 170, was thrown off his train

yesterday and badly injured. He is a member of the Welcome Home

Committee and had intended to accompany the rest to Harrisburg to meet

us.

Our train rolls into Broad Street Station, Philadelphia, at 4.20 P. M.,

and we are warmly greeted by many friends who have gathered in the great

train shed to welcome us home. From the station we are escorted to Odd

Fellows’ Temple, Broad and Cherry Streets, by the Reception Committee,

representing West Philadelphia Division 162, Quaker City Division 204,

Camden Division 170, and Wilmington Division 224. Brother J. H. Mooney,

of Division 162, calls the meeting to order and in a neat little speech

welcomes the excursionists home. Fine music is rendered by the

Philharmonic Quintet, composed of the following gentlemen: Ed. Volmer,

J. R. Whitely, Sol. Ecksteine, Chas. Genso, and Robert Crawford, ably

led by Prof. Jo. Allen. Brothers Wyman, Sheppard, and Shaw are called

upon for remarks relative to the trip, and they respond with short

addresses. Songs and recitations are given by J. Conlin and Mr. and Mrs.

Hughes, and the guests then repair to the basement banquet hall, where

refreshments are served. At 7.30 the meeting adjourns, adieus are

spoken, and we go to our several homes, feeling that we have had an

extraordinary picnic in the thirty-two days of our outing, and hoping to

meet again at the first anniversary of the Golden Gate Club one year

hence.

[THE END.]

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

give satistion=> give satisfaction {pg 3}

in these mighty hils=> in these mighty hills {pg 122}

Hank claims=> Hanks claims {pg 151}

will ever forget out trip=> will ever forget our trip {pg 158}

laughter could be hear=> laughter could be heard {pg 169}