"The weather has been so favorable (Dec. 11, '83) that farmers are still plowing. First frost occurred Sept. 26th. Mr. Cook, of this place, has about 8,000 head of cattle; does not provide feed or shelter for them during the winter, yet loses very few. Some look fat enough for market now, with no other feed than the prairie grass.
"School houses are now being built in nearly all the school districts. The voting population of the county at last election was 1,000. I will give you the production of the soil, and allow you to judge of its merit: Wheat from 28 to 35 bushels per acre; oats 50 to 80 bushels per acre; potatoes, weighing 3½ pounds, and 400 bushels per acre; cabbage, 22 pounds——"
This information I received from Mr. P. D. McAndrew, who was so favorably impressed with the country, when on his visit to Fort Niobrara, that he disposed of his Tribune office, and returned, and took a claim near the Stone Butte, of which I have before spoken, and located at Ainsworth.
I would add that Valentine has not made much advancement, as it is of later birth, and the cow-boys still hold sway, verifying Mr. Tucker's stories as only too true by added deeds of life-taking.
You may be interested in knowing what success Rev. Herbert had in preaching in such a place. He says of the first Sabbath: "Held services in the restaurant at ten a.m., with an audience of about twenty. One saloon keeper offered to close his bar, and give me the use of the saloon for the hour. All promised to close their bars for the time, but did not. The day was very much as Saturday; if any difference the stores did a more rushing business. As far as I was privileged to meet with the cow-boys, they treated me well. They molest those only who join them in their dissipations, and yet show fear of them. No doubt there are some very low characters among them, but there is chivalry (if it may so be called) that will not brook an insult to a lady. Many of them are fugitives from justice under assumed names; others are runaways from homes in the eastern states, led to it by exciting stories of western life, found in the cheap fiction of the times, and the accounts of such men as the James boys. But there are many who remember no other life. They spend most of their time during the summer in the saddle, seldom seeing any but their companions. Their nights are spent rolled in their blankets, with the sky for their roof and sod for a pillow. They all look older than their years would warrant them in looking."
LONG PINE.
After supper I walked out to see the bridge across the Long Pine creek of which I have before spoken. But I was too tired to enjoy the scenery and see it all, and concluded if the morrow was the Sabbath, there could be no harm in spending a part of it quietly seeing some of nature's grandeur, and returned to the Severance House and retired early to have a long night of rest. There is no bar connected with this hotel, although the only one in town, and a weary traveler surely rests the better for its absence.
The morning was bright and pleasant, and Mrs. H. L. Glover, of Long Pine, Mr. H. L. Hubletz, and Mr. L. A. Ross, of the colony, and myself started early for the bridge.
It is 600 feet in length, and 105 feet high. The view obtained from it is grand indeed. Looking south the narrow stream is soon lost to view by its winding course, but its way is marked by the cedar and pine trees that grow in its narrow valley, and which tower above the table-land just enough to be seen. Just above the bridge, from among the rocks that jut out of the bank high above the water, seven distinct springs gush and drip, and find their way down the bank into the stream below, mingling with the waters of the Pine and forming quite a deep pool of clear water. But like other Nebraska waters it is up and away, and with a rush and ripple glides under the bridge, around the bluffs, and far away to the north, until it kisses the waters of the Niobrara. We can follow its course north only a little way farther than we can south, but the valley and stream is wider, the bluffs higher, and the trees loftier.
It is not enough to view it at such a distance, and as height adds to grandeur more than depth, we want to get right down to the water's edge and look up at the strangely formed walls that hem them in. So we cross the bridge to the west and down the steep bank, clinging to bushes and branches to help us on our way, until we stop to drink from the springs. The water is cool and very pleasant to the taste. Then stop on a foot bridge across the pool to dip our hands in the running water, and gather a memento from its pebbly bed. On the opposite shore we view the remains of a deserted dugout and wondered who would leave so romantic a spot. Then along a well worn path that followed the stream's winding way, climbing along the bluff's edges, now pulling ourselves up by a cedar bush, and now swinging down by a grape-vine, we followed on until Mrs. G. remarked: "This is an old Indian path," which sent a cold wave over me, and looking about, half expecting to see a wandering Sioux, and not caring to meet so formidable a traveler on such a narrow pathway, I proposed that we would go no farther. So back to the bridge and beyond we went, following down the stream.