fountains from subterranean depths. Its purity is preserved by its altitude, and the outlet into Chicago Creek. I recently looked down from the top of Rosalie Mountain upon its shining surface; indeed, Echo Lake and Chicago Lakes, are a part of one natural system of reservoirs, and, together, might be called, as hitherto suggested, The Hanging Lakes of Colorado. Echo Lake is about 1,500 feet lower than Chicago Lake. The fall is such as to suggest a project for conveying some of the waters from Chicago Creek to this lake. A survey has been made and the enterprise pronounced feasible. There is an eastern outlet from Echo down a beautiful valley to Bear Creek. It may be inferred from this what is in the minds of leading and public-spirited gentlemen, regarding a pure water supply for such as may dwell "where the dust groweth into hardness, and the clods cleave fast together." This could be accomplished by causing the contents of Chicago Lakes, Echo Lake, and other neighboring water basins, to flow into a common aqueduct down Bear Creek Valley. All around this lake the mountains rise as if to enclose it in an emerald setting. Eastward the ascent is so gentle as to suggest nature's arrangement for an early sunrise. On the south, Gold Mountain stretches its left flank out to the right of Evans, whose western base commingles with the foundations of Rosalie beneath upper Chicago Lake. These lofty, half-encircling mountains, a part of the Great Snowy Range, seen from the cottage door, across the bosom of the lake and above the skirting pines, constitute the principle feature of "a most living landscape." Pointing to the summit of Bierstadt Mountain, Colonel Osbiston said to me: "Do you see that buffalo?" I looked along the line of the colonel's right fore finger and I plainly saw the snow-formed image of a buffalo, as if in full flight. It seemed to me that it had fled to that almost inaccessible point as a place of safety from the pursuit of the merciless. hunter upon the plains. As a reminder of a departed race it will perhaps remain there forever—a noble race whose extinction, save the one hundred guarded by Federal bayonents in Yellowstone Park-is a national shame. It is interesting to recall in this connection, that "The Last of the Buffalo" is the last great painting from Bierstadt's easel. things kept in store for such occasions. A fire was started in the stove and the oven heated for trout baking. The table was spread with decorated china, a beautiful old-fashioned set, brought from Norfolk, England, the birth-place of Colonel Osbiston, To aid in cooking such a camp dinner was an exquisite pleasure, urged on as I was by an increasing appetite, and profiting by similar experience in the old war days. Meanwhile I listened to the modestly told story of one of Colorado's sucessful pioneers-one of the founders of the Centennial State, Hon. Henry Plummer. It was the story of a young man leaving Maine, his native State, thirty years ago and coming to the vast West, poor and alone; journeying from one place to another, seek-. ing his fortune and actuated, more or less, by reports from different mining camps in different Territories, until at last a full measure of success was his reward, in becoming the leading merchant, banker, and foremost citizen of Idaho Springs. I rode by the side of Mr. Plummer, along Chicago Creek, over ground on which he had placer-mined, taking from its ore-charged sand and gravel, by hard and prolonged toil, free gold, amounting to about $30,000, which became the foundation of his independent fortune. "I do not take much pleasure myself, in this kind of camping out. I had enough of it years ago," he said, alluding to the days of his early struggles. "I like to have my family come here though." Here the returning boat touched the rock at the landing, and, disembarking, the proud and successful fishermen, Colonel Osbiston and Captain Vivian, displayed their their fine catch Here and there a lusty trout, Four were soon in the waiting oven and the four were soon after upon the table, hot and delicious. One was for the native of Norfolk; one for Vivian, born in old Cornwall; one for the man from Maine, and the fourth for the Ohio man. From all these points we had come, and for the first timemay it not be the last-had seated ourselves at lunch together, around one table, by the side of this upland. sea. My pleasure-giving remembrance of it will be as fadeless as the fadeless pine branches that over-shadowed us. To cast a line, probably fifty feet long, by a simple movement of the wrist and locate the coachman in the chosen spot; to catch the sight of the trout rising for the flitting fly, and, with the precision of intuition-the reason has not time to act-lift the fly the instant it enters the mouth of the fish, thereby hooking the scaly fellow, and, after a thrilling struggle, safely land him in the basket, requires skill that comes by long experienee, but is none the less admirable. This Colonel Osbiston could do to perfection. As he occupied one end of the boat, with myself at the other, I profited somewhat by his patient teaching, so much so that I, too, caught several weighty trout. I had to do it. The colonel had warned me that if I did not catch a fish he would throw me overboard. I might have relied upon the assurance one character gave another in "The Tempest," when he told one similarly imperilled, that he need have no fear of being drowned, as his "complexion was perfect gallows." The success of Mr. Plummer was remarkable, who, while making no professions, caught a number of those wary fish, one of them as large as the largest; yet his inexperience caused. an amusing incident. Captain Vivian, thinking that better luck awaited Mr. Plummer's fly upon the opposite side of the boat, asked Mr. Plummer to throw in there. He tried to do so one or more times, but his line refused to rise. Perceiving Plummer's perplexity, and noting at a glance its cause, the captain said: "Why Plummer, you've got a fish on your hook." The information caused Mr. Plummer great delight, for he immediately landed a fine fellow that had taken his fly and was leisurely making his way to deeper water. About seven hours were allowed us at the lake. We then remounted our horses for the return, arriving at Idaho Springs at six o'clock in the evening. It was a mid-summer day spent where the "heat-oppressed brain" and the enervated body will find that for which they long everywhere else but in these mountain resorts. While sitting by the side of Mr. Plummer, both looking out of the door, almost still-rapt in admiration of the view, our attention was suddenly called to an unusual scene transpiring upon the summits of Evans, Rosalie and Bierstadt mountains. Large rain-drops, intermingled with hail-stones, were falling upon the lake; but away up there we saw, from our point of view, what Bierstadt painted-"A Snow Storm in August on the Rocky Mountains.” A mist veiled the lake and forest for a moment, but the magnificence of a storm-burst, ending in falling snowflakes, only slightly obscured the grim and tempest-defying peaks. The sky, more deeply blue for the brief eclipse. soon reappeared through the dismembering clouds. The sun shone in splendor upon the white-robed summits. We saw in this changeful landscape a picture of marvellous possibilities. But no artist, not even Bierstadt, could paint it, no more than Beethoven could catch and preserve, in naturals, flats, and sharps, the song of a seraph. The soul felt an uplift—an intimation of that harmony, in color and in sound, that it will never see, or hear, "whilst this muddy vesture of decay doth grossly close it in." HENRY DUDLEY TEETOR. |