I have often met and passed her out on the road, and the horse she drives is a large, handsome animal, and we had supposed that she was a good whip; so, when Mr. Ames appeared the other day and said his wife had asked him to come up and buy the sorrel horse for her we were delighted that such a good home had been found for him—and for Fannie too. Mr. Ames bought the entire outfit. Fannie is beautiful, but wholly lacking in affection, and can take care of herself any place.

All sorts of people have been here for the horses—some wanted both, others only one—but Faye would not let them go to any of them, as he was afraid they would not have the best of care. Rollo had been gone only an hour or so when a young man—a typical bronco breaker—came to buy him, and seemed really distressed because he had been sold. He said that he had broken him when a colt at Mr. Vaughn's. It so happened that Faye was at the adjutant's office, and the man asked for me. I was very glad, for I had always wanted to meet the person who had slammed the saddle first on Rollo's back. I told him that it was generally considered at the post that I had broken the horse! I said that he had been made cruelly afraid of a saddle, and for a long time after we had bought him, he objected to it and to being mounted, and I did not consider a horse broken that would do those things. I said also, that the horse had not been gaited. He interrupted with, "Why, he's a pacer"—just as though that settled everything; but I told him that Rollo had three perfectly trained grades of speed, each one of which I had taught him.

The young man's face became very red and he looked angry, but I had a beautiful time. It was such a relief to express my opinion to the man just at that time, too, when I was grieving so for the horse. I saw at once that he was a bronco breaker from his style of dress. He had on boots of very fine leather with enormously high heels, and strapped to them were large, sharp-pointed Mexican spurs. His trousers were of leather and very broad at the bottom, and all down the front and outside was some kind of gray fur—"chaps" this article of dress is called—and in one hand he held a closely plaited, stinging black "quirt." He wore a plaid shirt and cotton handkerchief around his neck. That describes the man who rode Rollo first—and no wonder the spirited, high-strung colt was suspicious of saddles, men, and things. I watched the man as he rode away. His horse was going at a furious gallop, with ears turned back, as if expecting whip or spur any instant, and the man sat far over on one side, that leg quite straight as though he was standing in the long stirrup, and the other was resting far up on the saddle—which was of the heavy Mexican make, with enormous flaps, and high, round pommel in front. I am most thankful that Rollo has gone beyond that man's reach, as everything about him told of cruelty to horses.

Yet, Mrs. Ames seemed such a cold woman—so incapable of understanding or appreciating the affection of a dumb animal. During the years we owned Rollo he was struck with the whip only once—the time I wanted him to run down a wolf up the river.

The Great Northern Railroad runs very near Fort Shaw now—about twenty miles, I think—and, that will make it convenient for the moving of the regiment, and all of us, in fact. We will go to St. Paul on the special train with the regiment, for Faye will not be relieved as adjutant until he reaches Fort Snelling, where we will remain for a day or two. It will be a sad trip for me, for I love the West and life at a Western post, and the vanities of city life do not seem attractive to me—and I shall miss my army friends, too!

Perhaps it is a small matter to mention, but since I have been with the Army I have ridden twenty-two horses that had never been ridden by a woman before! As I still recollect the gait and disposition of each horse, it seems of some consequence to me, for unbroken as some were, I was never unseated—not once!

THE PAXTON HOTEL, OMAHA, NEBRASKA, August, 1888.

ALMOST five weeks have passed since we left dear Fort Shaw! During that time we have become more or less accustomed to the restrictions of a small city, but I fancy that I am not the only one of the party from Montana who sometimes sighs for the Rocky Mountains and the old garrison life. Here we are not of the Army—neither are we citizens. General and Mrs. Bourke are still dazzled by the brilliancy of the new silver star on the general's shoulder straps, and can still smile. Faye says very little, but I know that he often frets over his present monotonous duties and yearns for the regiment, his duties as adjutant of the regiment, the parades, drills, and outdoor life generally, that make life so pleasant at a frontier post.

Department Headquarters is in a government building down by the river, and the offices are most cheerless. All the officers wear civilian clothes, and there is not one scrap of uniform to be seen any place—nothing whatever to tell one "who is who," from the department commander down to Delaney, the old Irish messenger! Each one sits at his desk and busies himself over the many neatly tied packages of official papers upon it, and tries to make the world believe that he is happy—but there are confidential talks, when it is admitted that life is dreary—the regiment the only place for an energetic officer, and so on. Yet not one of those officers could be induced to give up his detail, for it is always such a compliment to be selected from the many for duty at headquarters. Faye and Lieutenant Travis are on the general's personal staff, the others belong to the department. Just now, Faye is away with the department commander, who is making an official tour of inspection through his new department, which is large, and includes some fine posts. It is known as "The Department of the Platte."

Everyone has been most hospitable—particularly the army people at Fort Omaha—a post just beyond the city limits. Mrs. Wheeler, wife of the colonel in command, gave a dancing reception very soon after we got here, and an elegant dinner a little later on—both for the new brigadier general and his staff. Mrs. Foster, the handsome wife of the lieutenant colonel, gave a beautiful luncheon, and the officers of the regiment gave a dance that was pleasant. But their orchestra is far from being as fine as ours. In the city there have been afternoon and evening receptions, and several luncheons, the most charming luncheon of all having been the one given by my friend, Mrs. Schuyler, at the Union Club. One afternoon each week the club rooms are at the disposal of the wives of its members, and so popular is this way of entertaining, the rooms are usually engaged weeks in advance. The service is really perfect, and the rooms airy and delightfully cool—and cool rooms are great treasures in this hot place.

The heat has been almost unbearable to us from the mountains, and one morning I nearly collapsed while having things "fitted" in the stuffy rooms of a dressmaker. Many of these nouveaux riches dress elegantly, and their jewels are splendid. All the women here have such white skins, and by comparison I must look like a Mexican, my face is so brown from years of exposure to dry, burning winds. Of course there has been much shopping to do, and for a time it was so confusing—to have to select things from a counter, with a shop girl staring at me, or perhaps insisting upon my purchasing articles I did not want. For years we had shopped from catalogues, and it was a nice quiet way, too. Parasols have bothered me. I would forget to open them in the street, and would invariably leave them in the stores when shopping, and then have to go about looking them up. But this is the first summer I have been East in nine years, and it is not surprising that parasols and things mix me up at times.

Faye has a beautiful saddle horse—his gait a natural single foot—and I sometimes ride him, but most of my outings are on the electric cars. I might as well be on them, since I have to hear their buzz and clang both day and night from our rooms here in the hotel. The other morning, as I was returning from a ride across the river to Council Bluffs, I heard the shrill notes of a calliope that reminded me that Forepaugh's circus was to be in town that day, and that I had promised to go to the afternoon performance with a party of friends. But soon there were other sounds and other thoughts. Above the noise of the car I heard a brass band—and there could be no mistake—it was playing strong and full one of Sousa's marches, "The March Past of the Rifle Regiment"—a march that was written for Faye while he was adjutant of the regiment, and "Dedicated to the officers and enlisted men" of the regiment. For almost three years that one particular march had been the review march of the regiment—that is, it had been played always whenever the regiment had passed in review before the colonel, inspector general of the department, or any official of sufficient rank and authority to review the troops.

The car seemed to go miles before it came to a place where I could get off. Every second was most precious and I jumped down while it was still in motion, receiving a scathing rebuke from the conductor for doing so. I almost ran until I got to the walk nearest the band, where I tagged along with boys, both big and small. The march was played for some time, and no one could possibly imagine, how those familiar strains thrilled me. But there was an ever-increasing feeling of indignation that a tawdry coated circus band, sitting in a gilded wagon, should presume to play that march, which seemed to belong exclusively to the regiment, and to be associated only with scenes of ceremony and great dignity.

The circus men played the piece remarkably well, however, and when it was stopped I came back to the hotel to think matters over and have a heart-to-heart talk with myself. Of course I am more than proud that Faye is an aide-de-camp, and would not have things different from what they are, but the detail is for four years, and the thought of living in this unattractive place that length of time is crushing. But Faye will undoubtedly have his captaincy by the expiration of the four years, and the anticipation of that is comforting. It is the feeling of loneliness I mind here—of being lost and no one to search for me. I miss the cheery garrison life—the delightful rides, and it may sound funny, but I miss also the little church choir that finally became a joy to me. Sergeant Graves is now leader of the regimental band at Fort Snelling, and Matijicek is in New York, a member of the Damrosch orchestra. It is still something to wonder over that I should have been on a street car that carried me to a circus parade at the precise time the Review March was being played! It seems quite as marvelous as my having been seated at a supper table in a far-away ranch in Montana, the very night a number of horse breakers were there, also at the table, and one of them "put up" Rollo and me to his friends. I shall never forget how queer I felt when I heard myself discussed by perfect strangers in my very presence—not one of whom knew in the least who I was. It made me think that perhaps I was shadowy—invisible—although to myself I did not feel at all that way.

Faye wrote to Mr. Ames about Rollo, thinking that possibly he might buy him back, but Mr. Ames wrote in reply that Rollo had already been sold, because Mrs. Ames had found it impossible to manage him. Also that he was owned by the post trader at Fort Maginnis, who was making a pet of him. So, as the horse had a good home and gentle treatment, it was once more decided to leave him up in his native mountains. It might have been cruel to have brought him here to suffer from the heat, and to be frightened and ever fretted by the many strange sights and sounds. But I am not satisfied, for the horse had an awful fear of men when ridden or driven by them, and I know that he is so unhappy and wonders why I no longer come to him, and why I do not take him from the strange people who do not understand him. He was a wonderfully playful animal, and sometimes when Miller would be leading the two horses from our yard to the corral, he would turn Rollo loose for a run. That always brought out a number of soldiers to see him rear, lunge, and snort; his turns so quick, his beautiful tawny mane would be tossed from side to side and over his face until he looked like a wild horse. The more the men laughed the wilder he seemed to get. He never forgot Miller, however, but would be at the corral by the time he got there, and would go to his own stall quietly and without guidance. Poor Rollo!

CAMP NEAR UINTAH MOUNTAINS, WYOMING TERRITORY, August, 1888.

TO be back in the mountains and in camp is simply glorious! And to see soldiers walking around, wearing the dear old uniform, just as we used to see them, makes one feel as though old days had returned. The two colored men—chef and butler—rather destroy the technique of a military camp, but they seem to be necessary adjuncts; and besides, we are not striving for harmony and effect, but for a fine outing, each day to be complete with its own pleasures. It was a novel experience to come to the mountains in a private car! The camp is very complete, as the camp of a department commander should be, and we have everything for our comfort. We are fourteen miles from the Union Pacific Railroad and six from Fort Bridger, from which post our tents and supplies came. Our ice is sent from there, also, and of course the enlisted men are from that garrison.

The party consists of General and Mrs. Bourke, Mrs. Hall, Mrs. Bourke's sister, Mrs. Ord of Omaha, General Stanley, paymaster, Captain Rives, judge advocate—both of the department staff—Lieutenant Travis, junior aide-de-camp, Faye, and myself. Mrs. Ord is a pretty woman, always wears dainty gowns, and is a favorite with Omaha society people. I know her very well, still I hesitated about wearing my short-skirted outing suit, fearing it would shock her. But a day or two after we got here she said to me, "What are we to do about those fish, Mrs. Rae? I always catch the most fish wherever I go, but I hear that you are successful also!"

So with high spirits we started out by ourselves that very morning, everyone laughing and betting on our number of fish as we left camp. I wore the short skirt, but Mrs. Ord had her skirts pinned so high I felt that a tuck or two should be taken in mine, to save her from embarrassment. The fishing is excellent here and each one had every confidence in her own good luck, for the morning was perfect for trout fishing. Once I missed Mrs. Ord, and pushing some bushes back where I thought she might be, I saw a most comical sight. Lying flat on the ground, hat pushed back, and eyes peering over the bank of the stream, was Mrs. Ord, the society woman! I could not help laughing—she was so ridiculous in that position, which the pinned-up dress made even more funny—but she did not like it, and looking at me most reproachfully said, "You have frightened him away, and I almost had him." She had been in that position a long time, she said, waiting for a large trout to take her hook. The race for honors was about even that day, and there was no cause for envy on either side, for neither Mrs. Ord nor I caught one fish!

Our camp is near Smith's fork of Snake River, and not far from the camp is another fork that never has fish in it—so everyone tells us. That seemed so strange, for both streams have the same water from the stream above, and the same rocky beds. One day I thought I would try the stream, as Smith's fork was so muddy we could not fish in that. There had been a storm up in the mountains that had caused both streams to rise, so I caught some grasshoppers to bait with, as it would be useless, of course, to try flies. I walked along the banks of the swollen stream until I saw a place where I thought there should be a trout, and to that little place the grasshopper was cast, when snap! went my leader. I put on another hook and another grasshopper, but the result was precisely the same, so I concluded there must be a snag there, although I had supposed that I knew a fish from a snag! I tried one or two other places, but there was no variation—and each time I lost a leader and hook.

In the meantime a party had come over from camp, Faye among them, and there had been much good advice given me—and each one had told me that there were no fish ever in that stream; then they went on up and sat down on the bank under some trees. I was very cross, for it was not pleasant to be laughed at, particularly by women who had probably never had a rod in their hands. And I felt positive that it had been fish that had carried off my hooks, and I was determined to ascertain what was the matter. So I went back to our tent and got a very long leader, which I doubled a number of times. I knew that the thickness would not frighten the fish, as the water was so cloudy. I fixed a strong hook to that, upon which was a fine grasshopper, and going to one of the places where my friends said I had been "snagged," I cast it over, and away it all went, which proved that I had caught something that could at least act like a fish. I reeled it in, and in time landed the thing—a splendid large trout! My very first thought was of those disagreeable people who had laughed at me—Faye first of all. So after them I went, carrying the fish, which gained in weight with every step. Their surprise was great, and I could see that Faye was delighted. He carried the trout to camp for me, and I went with him, for I was very tired.

The next morning I went to that stream again, taking with me a book of all sorts of flies and some grasshoppers. The department commander went over also. He asked me to show him where I had lost the hooks, but I said, "If you fish in those places you will be laughed at more than I was yesterday." He understood, and went farther down. The water was much more clear, but still flies could not be seen, so I used the scorned grasshopper. In about two hours I caught sixteen beautiful trout, which weighed, en masse, a little over twenty-five pounds! I cast in the very places where I had lost hooks, and almost every time caught a fish. I left them in the shade in various places along the stream, and Faye and a soldier brought them to camp. A fine display they made, spread out on the grass, for they seemed precisely the same size.

The general caught two large and several small trout—those were all that day. It was most remarkable that I should have found the only good places in the stream at a time when the water was not clear. Not only the right places, but the one right day, for not one trout has been caught there since. Perhaps with the high water the fish came up from Snake River, although trout are supposed to live in clear water. We can dispose of any number of birds and fish here, for those that are not needed for our own large mess can be given to the soldiers, and we often send chicken and trout to our friends at Fort Bridger. The farther one goes up the stream the better the fishing is—that is, the fish are more plentiful, but not as large as they are here.

About sixteen miles up—almost in the mountains—was General Crook's favorite fishing ground, and when he was in command of the department he and General Stanley, who also is an expert fisherman, came here many times, consequently General Stanley is familiar with the country about here. The evening after my splendid catch, General Stanley said that he would like to have Mrs. Ord and me go with him up the stream several miles, and asked if I would be willing to give Mrs. Ord the stream, as she had never used a fly, adding that she seemed a little piqued because I had caught such fine fish. I said at once that I would be delighted to give her the lead, although I knew, of course, that whoever goes second in a trout stream has very poor sport. But the request was a compliment, and besides, I had caught enough fish for a while.

The next day we made preparations, and early on the morning of the second we started. The department commander had gone to Omaha on official business, so he was not with us, and Faye did not go; but the rest of the party went twelve miles and then established a little camp for the day, and there we left them. Mrs. Ord and I and General Stanley, with a driver, got on a buckboard drawn by two mules, and went five miles farther up the stream, until, in fact, it was impossible for even a buckboard to go along the rocky trail. There we were expected to take the stream, and as soon as we left the wagon, Mrs. Ord and I retired to some bushes to prepare for the water. I had taken the "tuck" in my outing skirt, so there was not much for me to do; but Mrs. Ord pulled up and pinned up her serge skirt in a way that would have brought a small fortune to a cartoonist. When we came from the bushes, rods in hand, the soldier driver gave one bewildered stare, and then almost fell from his seat. He was too respectful to laugh outright and thus relieve his spasms, but he would look at us from the side of his eye, turn his face from us and fairly double over—then another quick look, and another double down again. Mrs. Ord laughed, and so did I. She is quite stout and I am very thin, and I suppose the soldier did see funny things about us. We saw them ourselves.

I shall never forget my first step in that water! It was as chilling as if it had been running over miles of ice, and by comparison the August sun seemed fiery; but these things were soon forgotten, for at once the excitement of casting a fly began. It is almost as much pleasure to put a little fly just where you want it, as it is to catch the fish. My rod and reel were in perfect condition—Faye had seen to that—and my book of flies was complete, and with charming companions and a stream full of trout, a day of unusual pleasure was assured. We were obliged to wade every step, as the banks of the stream had walls of boulders and thick bushes. Most of the stream was not very deep, but was a foamy, roaring torrent, rushing over the small rocks and around the large ones, with little, still, dark places along the banks—ideal homes for the mountain trout. We found a few deep pools that looked most harmless, but the current in them was swift and dangerous to those who could not always keep their balance. It was most difficult for me to walk on the slippery stones at first, and I had many a fall; but Mrs. Ord, being heavy, avoided upsets very nicely. At times we would be in water above our waists, and then Mrs. Ord and I would fall back with General Stanley for protection, who alternately praised and laughed at us during the whole day. Mrs. Ord was very quick to learn where and how to cast a fly, and I was delighted to let General Stanley see that grasshoppers were not at all necessary to my success in fishing.

We sat upon a big, flat rock at luncheon, and were thankful that General Stanley was a tall man and could keep the box of sandwiches from getting wet. When we toppled over he always came to our assistance, so at times his wading boots were not of much use to him. Mrs. Ord was far ahead of me in number of fish, and General Stanley said that I had better keep up with her, if I wished. The stream had broadened out some, so finally Mrs. Ord whipped the left side, which is easier casting, and I whipped the right. We waded down the entire five miles, and Mrs. Ord, who had the stream most of the time, caught sixty-four trout and I caught fifty-six, and General Stanley picked up fourteen, after our splashing and frightening away the fish we did not catch. The trout were small, but wonderfully full of fight in that cold water. Of course General Stanley carried them for us. The driver had been ordered to keep within call on the trail, as General Stanley thought it would be impossible for Mrs. Ord and me to wade the five miles; but the distance seemed short to us; we never once thought of being tired, and it was with great regret we reeled in our lines.

There was a beaver dam above the picnic camp, and before we came to it I happened to get near the bank, where I saw in the mud the impression of a huge paw. It was larger than a tea plate, and was so fresh one could easily see where the nails had been. I asked General Stanley to look at it, but he said, "That? oh, that is only the paw of a cub—he has been down after fish." At once I discovered that the middle of the stream was most attractive, and there I went, and carefully remained there the rest of the way down. If the paw of a mere "cub" could be that enormous size, what might not be the size of an ordinary grown-up bear, paws included! Mrs. Ord declared that she rather liked little bears—they were so cunning and playful—but I noticed she avoided the banks, also.

We had left dry clothing at the small camp, and when we returned we found nice little retreats all ready for us, made of cloaks and things, in among the boulders and bushes. There were cups of delicious hot tea, too; but we were not cold, and the most astonishing thing about that whole grand day is, we did not feel stiff or the slightest discomfort in any form after it. The tramp was long and the water cold, and my own baths many. I might have saved myself, sometimes, from going all the way down had I not been afraid of breaking my rod, which I always held high when I fell. The day was one to be remembered by Mrs. Ord and me. We had thought all the time that General Stanley was making a great sacrifice by giving up a day's sport for our amusement, and that it was so kind of him, for, of course he could not be enjoying the day; but it seems that he had sport of which we knew nothing until the following day—in fact, we know nothing about it yet! But he began to tell the most absurd stories of what we did, and we must have done many unusual things, for he is still entertaining the camp with them. He was very proud of us, nevertheless, and says so often. The ride of twelve miles back to camp seemed endless, for as soon as the excitement of the stream was over we found that we were tired—awfully tired.

We have only a few weeks more of this delightful life. The hunting is excellent, too, and Faye and Captain Rives often bring in large bags of mountain grouse and young sage hens. The sage chicken are as tender and delicious as partridge before they begin to feed upon wild sage in the fall, but one short day in the brush makes them different birds and wholly unpalatable. We often send birds, and fish also, to friends at Fort Bridger, who were most hospitable the day we arrived, and before coming to camp.

I had quite forgotten the wedding yesterday! It was at Fort Bridger, and the bride, a daughter of the post trader, is related to several families of social position at Omaha. We put on the very prettiest gowns we had with us, but the effect was disappointing, for our red faces looked redder than ever above delicate laces and silks. The ceremony was at noon—was very pretty—and everything passed off beautifully. The breakfast was delicious, and we wondered at the dainty dishes served so far from a caterer. The house was not large, and every bit of air had been shut out by darkening the windows, but we were spared the heat and smell of lamps on the hot day by the rooms being lighted by hundreds of candles, each one with a pretty white shade. But some of us felt smothered, and as soon as the affair was over, started immediately for the camp, where we could have exhilarating mountain air once more.

It was really one whole day stolen from our outing! We can always have crowded rooms, receptions, and breakfasts, wherever we happen to be in the East, but when again will we be in a glorious camp like this—and our days here are to be so few! From here we are to go to Salt Lake City for a week or two.

THE WALKER HOUSE, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH. September, 1888.

THE weather is still very warm, but not hot enough to keep us from going to the lake as usual this morning. The ride is about eighteen miles long, and is always more or less pleasant. The cars, often long trains, are narrow gauge, open, and airy. The bathing is delightful, but wholly unlike anything to be found elsewhere. The wonderfully clear water is cool and exhilarating, but to swim in it is impossible, it is so heavy from its large percentage of salt. So every one floats, but not at all as one floats in other waters. We lie upon our backs, of course—at least we think we do—but our feet are always out of the water, and our heads straight up, with large straw hats upon them.

They have a way of forming human chains on the water that often startles one at first. They are made by hooking one's arms close to the shoulder over the ankles of another person, still another body hooking on to you, and so on. Then each one will stretch his or her arms out and paddle backward, and in this way we can go about without much effort, and can see all the funny things going on around us. As I am rather tall, second position in a chain is almost always given to me, and my first acquaintance with masculine toes close to my face came very near being disastrous. The feet stood straight up, and the toes looked so very funny, with now and then a twitch back or front, that soon I wanted to laugh, and the more I tried not to the more hysterical I became. My shoulders were shaking, and the owner of the toes—a pompous man—began to suspect that I was laughing and probably at the toes. Still he continued to twist them around—one under the other—in an astonishing way, that made them fascinating. The head of the chain—the pompous man—became ominously silent. At last I said, almost sobbing, "Can't you see for yourself how funny all those things are in front of us? They look like wings in their pin-feather stage—only they are on the wrong side—and I am wondering if the black stockings would make real black wings—and what some of us would do with them, after all!" After that there was less pompous dignity and less hysteria, although the toes continued to wigwag.

It is a sight that repays one to watch, when dozens of these chains—some long, some short—are paddling about on the blue water that is often without a ripple. It is impossible to drown, for sink in it you cannot, but to get the brine in one's nose and throat is dangerous, as it easily causes strangulation, particularly if the person is at all nervous. We wear little bits of cotton in our ears to prevent the water from getting in, for the crust of salt it would leave might cause intense pain.

Bathing in water so salt makes one both hungry and sleepy, therefore it is considered quite the correct thing to eat hot popcorn, and snooze on the return trip. We get the popcorn at the pavilion, put up in attractive little bags, and it is always crisp and delicious. Just imagine a long open car full of people, each man, woman, and child greedily munching the tender corn! By the time one bag full has been eaten, heads begin to wobble, and soon there is a "Land of Nod"—real nod, too. Some days, when the air is particularly soft and balmy, everyone in the car will be oblivious of his whereabouts. Not one stop is made from the lake to the city.

Faye and I were at the lake almost a week—Garfield Beach the bathing place is called—-so I could make a few water-color drawings early in the morning, when the tints on the water are so pearly and exquisitely delicate. During the day the lake is usually a wonderful blue—deep and brilliant—and the colors at sunset are past description. The sun disappears back of the Oquirah Mountains in a world of glorious yellow and orange, and as twilight comes on, the mountains take on violet and purple shades that become deeper and deeper, until night covers all from sight.

There was not a vacant room at Garfield Beach, so they gave us two large rooms at Black Rock—almost one mile away, but on the car line. The rooms were in a low, long building, that might easily be mistaken for soldiers' barracks, and which had broad verandas with low roofs all along both sides. That queer building had been built by Brigham Young for his seven wives! It consisted of seven apartments of two rooms each, a sitting room and sleeping room; all the sitting rooms were on one side, opening out upon the one veranda, and the bedrooms were on the other side and opened out upon the other veranda. These apartments did not connect in any way, except by the two porches. Not far from that building was another that had once been the dining room and kitchen of the seven wives. These mormon women must be simply idiotic, or have their tempers under good control!

It was all most interesting and a remarkable experience to have lived in one of Brigham Young's very own houses. But the place was ghostly—lonesome beyond everything—and when the wind moaned and sighed through the rooms one could fancy it was the wailing of the spirits of those seven wretched wives. When we returned at night to the dark, unoccupied building, it seemed more spooky than ever, after the music and light at Garfield Beach. Our meals were served to us at the restaurant at the pavilion. I made some very good sketches of the lake, Antelope Island, and a number of the wonderful Black Rock that is out in the lake opposite the Brigham Young house.

About two miles from the city, and upon the side of the Wasatch Mountains, is Camp Douglas, an army post, which the new department commander came to inspect. The inspection was in the morning, and we all went to see it, and were driven in the post with the booming of cannon—the salute always given a brigadier general when he enters a post officially. It was pretty to see the general's wife partly cover her ears, and pretend that she did not like the noise, when all the time her eyes were sparkling, and we knew that every roar of the big guns added to her pride. If all those guns had been for Faye I could never have stayed in the ambulance.

It is charming up there—in the post—and the view is magnificent. We sat out on a vine-covered porch during the inspection, and watched the troops and the review. It made me so happy, and yet so homesick, too, to see Faye once more in his uniform. The inspection was all too short, and after it was over, many officers and their wives came to call upon us, when wine and delicious cake was served. We were at the quarters of the colonel and post commander. That was the second post we had taken Mrs. Ord to, and she is suddenly enthusiastic over army people, forgetting that Omaha has a post of its own. But with us she has been in the tail of the comet—which made things more interesting. Army people are nice, though, particularly in their own little garrison homes.

There is only one mormon store here, and that is very large and cooperative. Every mormon who has anything whatever to sell is compelled to take it to that store to be appraised, and a percentage taken from it. There are a few nice gentile shops, but mormons cannot enter them; they can purchase only at the mormon store, where the gentiles are ever cordially welcomed also. Splendid fruit and vegetables are grown in this valley—especially the fruit, which is superior to any we ever saw. The grapes are of many varieties, each one large and rich with flavor, and the peaches and big yellow pears are most luscious. Upon our table down in the dining room there is always an immense glass bowl of selected fruit—peaches, pears, and grapes, and each time we go down it seems to look more attractive.

We have been to see the tabernacle, with its marvelous acoustic properties, and the temple, which is not yet finished. The immense pipe organ in the tabernacle was built where it now stands, and entirely by mormons. From Brigham Young's old home a grand boulevard runs, through the city, across the valley, and over the hill far away, and how much beyond I do not know. This road, so broad and white, Brigham Young said would lead to Jerusalem. They have a river Jordan here, too, a little stream that runs just outside the city.

There are grand trees in every street, and every old yard, and one cannot help feeling great indignation to see where in some places the incoming gentiles have cut trees down to make space for modern showy buildings, that are so wholly out of harmony with the low, artistic white houses and vine-covered walls. It is such a pity that these high, red buildings could not have been kept outside, and the old mormon city left in its original quaint beauty.

We will return to Omaha soon now, and I shall at once become busy with preparations for the winter East. I have decided to go home in October, so I can have a long, comfortable visit before going to Washington. Faye wishes me to join him there the last of December. I am not very enthusiastic over the prospect of crowded rooms, daily receptions and "teas," and other affairs of more formality. But since I cannot return to the plains, I might as well go to the city, where we will meet people of culture, see the fascinating Diplomatic Corps, and be presented to the President's beautiful young wife. Later on there will be the inauguration—for we expect to pass the winter in Washington.

THE END