Now let me give you a little history of our short "Holiday in the Rockies."
Sunday.—There being no church or place of worship of any kind, I regret to say, within many miles, we had to content ourselves with some quiet reading at home. The Church Missionary Societies should look after these boys scattered about here and there in these mountain wilds. The day was calm and bright, but by no means cool; the thermometer stood at 125º in the sun. In the afternoon we walked a considerable distance in the shade of the cañon, and then somewhat foolishly scrambled up one side of it in order to make a short cut over the mountain towards home, and a risky climb it was; but on reaching the top we were rewarded by a fine new view of the whole valley.
There is a remarkable echo up this cañon, equal, I have no doubt, to that celebrated one at Killarney which, if asked "How do you do, Paddy Blake?" will answer "Pretty well, I thank you."
Monday we walked up the foothills to look for some grouse and prairie chickens to shoot, but could not see any, greatly to my friend M.'s disappointment; he had come well provided with ammunition, both for large and small game. Unfortunately our time did not admit of very extended wanderings in search of sport. We then called upon neighbour McD., an old rancher who has had many rough experiences, and who tells long stories of perils he had undergone in the early Californian gold diggings and in fights with Indians. On his ranche he has built a nice little house, of which I made the accompanying sketch. A house of this description, of wood planking, comprising two good-sized rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, and two bedrooms, can be built for about 250 dollars.
NEIGHBOUR McD.'s COTTAGE.
He compelled us to stay to dinner. His wife, an active good-looking Canadian body, bustled about and prepared us an excellent dinner of hashed chicken, sweet cakes, coffee, and apple tart. She waited upon us at table and urged us to eat, and was pleased to see with what excellent appetites we fell to. She was gratified at the well-merited praise we lavished on her cooking.
After dinner, we had what I may call a musical evening. Frank gave us some songs, and his friend accompanied him on the guitar.
On Tuesday we drove for fifteen miles across the prairie to the West Gallatin River, where I was told good fishing may be had. We stayed at a comfortable hotel which had no licence for strong drinks, and we had to content ourselves with tea and coffee.
We immediately started for the river—a really fine stream, well stocked with trout and other fish. You already know something of my enthusiasm, as well as my bad luck, in matters piscatorial. I caught no trout, but you will perhaps be surprised to hear I brought home half-a-dozen half-pound fish called "White fish." I caught these with a large black fly with a red body. The fish takes this fly freely, but he has no pluck whatever; no sooner is he hooked than he succumbs at once, and one has nothing to do but pull him out of the water—there is no sport or fight in him. Our jolly landlord had taken us to a favourite spot, where he himself fished with a pole and twine, sitting on the stump of a tree;