A WARMER TRAIL.
A scientific knowledge of botany is by no means essential to happiness.
Latin does not add an atom of beauty to the wild clematis. One can
admire a healthy, bright-eyed baby without knowing its name. This
morning after I start out on the railroad I notice that the July
flowers are abundant on the slopes leading up to the foot-hills. Great
patches of wild poppies grow here and there--it is not an infatuating
plant, but one loses sight of the coarse leaves in the delicate white
of the bloom. The bluish-gray of the wild chamomile of itself makes a
rich carpet, but into this the hand of the Master has woven a countless
variety of colors. Hanging in bountiful clusters of crimson and scarlet
is a little flower, shaped like that of the honeysuckle; beside it,
pendant from their slender stems, a wealth of purple bells, while a
little canary-colored gem--a tiny, perfect, five-pointed star--peeps
up modestly, as if asking permission to add its atom to the gorgeous
pattern. So we have acres of tender beauty. I am glad to know that I
am not alone in the enjoyment of it. At the first station, where the
liberty of a few minutes' pause is allowed, a gentleman with his
trousers in his boots gives us to understand that appearances are
deceitful, by gathering a bouquet, and a young man in light-colored
tweed, small umbrella and eyeglass redeems himself also, in like
manner. The ladies are delighted and full of wonder, so beautiful
they are--the flowers, I mean, yet lacking fragrance; how can it be?
Two senses at least expectant and only one can be gratified? A little
three-year-old, disappointed, stigmatizes them as "weed flowers," but
is compelled, at the instance of a juvenile friend, to admit: "They
are pretty, anyway." They have a generous influence too; people who
had barely looked at each other for forty miles, pleasantly express a
common sentiment one to another, it may be a smile or a glance merely,
but it is sufficient to make them know they are of kin; even the young
man with the umbrella unbends and feels on the same plane with humanity.
The delicate haze of summer is again upon the hills; the great,
white napkins of a little while ago are changed into fields of grain
shimmering in the sun as they are brushed by the gentle wind; the
cattle no longer haunt the hay-stack, but slowly feed along the mesas,
or, filled and sleek, complacently chew their cuds in the shadows of
the pines; my castles on the Divide give evidence of thrift in the
surroundings, and in their summer garb display the exquisite taste of
their mistress; the song of the meadow lark strikes high above the
roar of the car wheels, and you lose entirely the clang of the iron
in the clear, sweet trill from the golden-throated beauty perched upon
an adjacent fence, or half hid in some grassy tussock; the pines have
turned to a lighter green, the willows are in full leaf, and as the eye
sweeps over the brilliant carpet toward the foot-hills and beyond, it
encounters the only sign of winter in the patches of snow lingering in
the clefts of the distant range; you mark the irregular sky-line of the
towering summits against that background of delicate blue, while the
loftier peaks may be kissed by a cloud. Does disease weigh you down; do
you fret under the vexations and disappointments of the daily drudgery;
has the sordid strife among your fellows made you feel that life is not
worth living; does sorrow brood in your heart? Why, look you, this leaf
is a panacea for hurt minds! it was not created for you, but you are so
constituted that you may find solace in it if you will--it is one of
the many out of the book that gives our copper-hued, untutored brother,
_faith_. Will you accept less than he?
But I am reminded that if I loiter so, I shall not reach Cascade in a
week. The Deacon, a young friend of mine, and the Major, are to join
me there, fully equipped for a campaign in the Roan Range. I propose,
however, to make them stop by the way, as the humor moves me.
Speeding across and down the south side of the Divide, I notice
trespassers on a part of my whilom wild estate under the foot-hills
at the right. Specks of cottages perched upon the slope of one of
my glades do not add to the romance of the picture, yet I feel a bit
flattered in that the builders have exhibited good taste in selecting a
location for their brown-roofed boxes. They can be cool in summer and
enjoy a view of mountains and plains. Then they may speculate, too,
upon what preceded the pines and grass-covered earth about them. The
gorge just back of them, and the meagre creek tumbling out from it,
give a hint, and as we move quickly down the narrow valley dolmens here
and there indicate that the little creek is only the remains of a river
of ice. These monuments of the centuries are very abundant hereabouts.
I have seen fossilized bivalves from this same drift down which I am
speeding, and am set to wondering what kind of mortals inhabited these
shores when those oysters were growing, and whether the brown-roofed
cottages on the slope above are an improvement upon the architecture of
that epoch. Or how many millions of years preceding that ice and ocean
age this same valley was a bed of verdure, as now; and whether those
who stirred up the soil are permitted to look on us and whether they
do so in sympathy with us in our tragedies, or are our tragedies all
comedies to them?
Loitering again! well, why may one not loiter when he finds a thrifty
city of his own time flourishing on an old ocean bed? This new city is
filled with the refinement and culture of the age, even its outlying
shanties have an air of respectability. It has its share of vices
too, no doubt; however, reformation is not my mission, the duties are
too delicate; I might be admonished to "throw the first stone" if
I dared. But there is no harm in wondering whether the culture and
refinement that flourished in the same spot a great many centuries ago
was different from the present ideal. We will not discuss it, as you
suggest, but sweep round and into the mountain gorge at our right,
looking down, as we speed along, upon Manitou. The Spirit invites one
to linger again, and there is comfort in the reflection that the Kind
Mother will welcome our coming, without stopping to inquire whether we
are compelled by the result of our vices to seek her beautiful places,
or are prompted by our virtues.
Thirty years since, the way we are travelling was an unbroken
wilderness; the Ute was only then being succeeded by the prospector.
Had it been suggested to the latter that his successors would ever
journey by rail, it would have moved him to pity for the unfortunate
mental plight of the prophet. A broad-gauge train of cars speeding
over the way where he found it toilsome to creep! Could anything be
more preposterous? Yet we are careening round graceful curves upon the
precipitous mountain sides, rushing over bridges that span yawning
chasms, plunging from light into darkness and out again from the short
tunnels into the light, ever on and up without impediment. Surely, for
the first time, it is like a pleasant dream, and one almost forgets
to take in the gorgeous, ever-changing panorama made up of pinnacles,
pine-clad hills, towering cliffs and flashing stream. Soon the gorge
widens into a cozy dell; to the right, a gentle grass-covered slope,
with countless wild flowers woven into the pattern, and groups of young
pines here and there, leads up to a tier of hills with rock-crowned
summits. To the left is Cascade Cañon, sentineled by lofty cliffs, and
from out its shady recesses comes tumbling the bright mountain stream
that suggested the name.
[Illustration: KEY-HOLE.]
The departing train leaves, besides myself, the gentleman with the
eyeglasses and slim umbrella. After dinner, while I solace myself with
the briar-root, this gentleman sits a little way off on the veranda
puffing a cigar. There is another, an obese party, walking up and down;
he is not to be mistaken; his boots are shiny, so are his coat and
trousers, and his felt hat gives token of grease and dust about the
band. His shirt bosom discloses a compromise between cheviot and wool,
and he wears an immense gold nugget for a breast-pin. He possesses the
air of one with prospects and bestows an occasional glance of inquiry
upon the gentleman with the umbrella. He catches the latter's eye, and
halts, almost imperceptibly, feels encouraged, nods and approaches;
then with an expression of boundless hospitality pervading his entire
person, bursts forth:
"A stranger in Colorado?"
The gentleman with the eyeglasses pauses in the middle of a puff, looks
up staringly, and the next moment relapses into his wonted contentment,
while the native takes a seat.
"Ya-a-s."
"The grandest country in the world; scenery unsurpassed, and the
climate superb; the air--there's nothing like the vivifying air--do you
notice the air?"
"Notice--ah--notice the aha?"
The stranger dropped his eyeglass, replaced it suddenly and stared a
further inquiry at his interrogator.
"Exactly--the lightness of it--its purity--the ozone, as it were----"
"Aw--y-a-s--I smell the fwagwance of the pines, and I feel sleepy
when----"
"You've struck it, my dear sir--that's what every one says--they always
feel sleepy on first coming out--but you'll overcome that in time--it's
a wide-awake country, you will find."
"You have wesided some time in Colowado, y-a-s?"
"Well, y-e-s, so, so--a few years, long enough to become acquainted
with the ways of the country. I came out to see about certain little
mining interests," he continued in a burst of confidence, "and was
detained longer than I expected, and now, I could not be induced to go
anywhere else to live."
There was an air of firmness in this avowal of attachment that carried
conviction with it.
"You are intawested in mines--y-a-s?"
"Slightly--enough to occupy my leisure time, that is all."
From the manner of the man he might have owned the State, exclusive of
the mines.
"I have one nice little piece of property over in Dead Man's Gulch, I
think of developing some day."
And while he patted this property on the back, so to speak, he
plunged his hand into his pocket for--a specimen, of course--"ruby
silver"--fabulous in ounces to the ton.
"Wooby silvah?" I heard the stranger inquire, as I relighted my pipe
and started for the cañon.
The broad avenue quickly narrows into a trail, leading into charming
nooks and shady retreats. The air is fragrant with the perfume of the
pines and the half mile of cascades contributes to the delight with
its music. The bed of this mountain brook is precipitous and has no
still reaches in its current. There are seemingly a dozen picturesque
waterfalls in its course, and the giver of names seems for once to have
been moved with happy intelligence and good taste. At the Naiads' Bath
I come to a halt in search of an Old Man, who, I am told, presides over
this place sacred to the spirits that flit hereabout, to indulge in
their holy ablutions. The early afternoon sun lights up the gray and
brown of the cliffs almost overhead and helps work the stately rocks
into fantastic shapes. I find him at last, on the opposite mountain
side, a tutelary deity carved out of the cold rock by the hand of old
Time, and looking down silent and grim upon the consecrated pool of
crystal. Not a great way below his chin, sits a modern belle, thin at
the waist and with flowing skirts. The sculptor must have anticipated
the day when she would be in the fashion, and set her up as a satire in
the sanctuary.
While I rest here, peering into the depths in search of the ethereal
beauties which I know must be sporting there, and who will be revealed
to me by the bright rays glinting through the foliage, and while I
listen in vain to catch some change in the deep notes of the silvery
organ almost at my side, I am conscious of another presence and look
up. The young woman in glasses and her companion with the fluffy hair
are standing within a few feet of me. I am at once reduced to plain
diet; even Darwin is forgotten, as his fair disciple with uplifted
hands exclaims:
"Is it not lovely!"
Her companion had barely time ecstatically to coincide, when the man
with the mine and his newly-found acquaintance climbed into sight. The
man with the mine remarked for the benefit of all:
"Splendid site for an overshot wheel."
The gentleman with the umbrella said:
"Chawming," leaving one in doubt.
But a startled and evident feeling of astonishment made itself manifest
in this gentleman's face as the Darwinian, hearing voices behind her,
turned in his direction.
"Why, Miss Gwace," he exclaimed, dropping his umbrella and extending
both hands, "this is a vewey gwatifying supwise."
Miss Grace did not seem so much gratified, accepting one hand only, and
allowing "Mr. Dide," as she named him, to recover his umbrella with the
other.
I considered it high time for me to move on. I had not gone far when
I heard a footstep behind me, and looking back, discovered the native
puffing up the trail. He had taken off his coat, and was perspiring
freely, so I halted, feeling a weakness for the practical mind. At
the same time I took comfort in the reflection that there were many
economical methods of exit from this life, and that the man with the
mine might find one to his taste. If he would only fall off a rock!
When he came up very red in the face and had mopped his thinly-covered
temples with a questionable handkerchief, he told me it was "hot." I
acquiesced by a nod, and he felt encouraged. I knew intuitively what
he would say next, and in that affirmative sort of way that precludes
denial:
"Stranger in Colorado? What part of the east are you from?"
"Italy."
"No! why, you talk like a native."
As it was the only word he heard me utter I considered him a competent
judge, and felt flattered.
[Illustration: MCGREGOR FALLS.]
I inquired if he had explored the cañon, and he reluctantly denied
that he had, but was going now to the top, notwithstanding it was "hot
work" for a man of his "build." I wanted to give him credit, and would
have done so, but for his remark touching the beautiful waterfall
below. While I kept moving it was impossible for him to talk without
discomfort, and I prayed that the way might become more precipitous.
Suddenly the trail presented a termination. The rocks towered up
grandly to the right, to the left was a steep incline, and directly
in front a pile of rocks blocking up the way, save for a slight rift
that might admit my working through. "The prayer of the wicked availeth
not." I felt that I was one of the righteous: the man with the mine
could never accomplish that keyhole, nor could he get around it. I
went on with reverence and humility. When I looked around he stood on
the lower side of the impassable barrier in evident contemplation, his
hat pushed back, his coat still on his arm, and one hand poised in
the act of mopping his dripping face. I found the grotto: great slabs
of granite leaning together at the top and edges made smooth by the
tempests of the ages, leaving a capacious, cool retreat below. I felt
a momentary regret at the condition of the man with the mine, and lay
in the shade listening to the music of the brook singing to me its
mysteries: whence it came, whither it was going, and of its adventures
thus far by the way.