I must not overlook an amusing incident of the trip. One of the passengers was an Irishman, who caused much merriment by a stroke of wit, or a blunder, just as the car stopped in front of the City Hall.
"This lovely park which you see," said the director, "has been brought to its present beautiful condition by levying a tax of one mill on all property owners. The burden, you see, was light for each person, and just to all."
"Light was it!" the Emerald-Islander exclaimed. "Begorry! mills must be dom plintiful in these parts, whin every mon is willin' to give uup a mill for an interist in a parruk. Be dad! it must ha' been rough on th' mon that owned but one mill. It was thot!" Whereupon our erudite guide politely dissertated on the great difference in mills, to the amusement of the English party and the Hibernian's satisfaction.
Before leaving Denver I found it advisable to add considerable to my traveling equipment. I ordered a tin canteen from my own design, to hold a gallon of water, and within it was fashioned a receptacle for holding two pounds of butter. Its value was constantly appreciated when crossing the deserts where we were enabled to carry butter, and an extra quantity of drinking water which was kept cool by wrapping the canteen with cloth and canvas and keeping them in a moist condition. I also purchased a large basket-covered demijohn of port wine (for medicinal purposes), an extra pack-saddle and camp supplies.
Although that altitude of 5,000 feet was quite invigorating, the sun at that season was unusually warm, and I intended to enjoy as much camp life as possible. We took a southerly course towards Pike's Peak, threading the villages of Littleton, Castle Rock, Sedalia and Monument, and the city of Colorado Springs. The scenic beauties of Colorado became more manifest every day.
Sunday afternoon I observed in the southwest a dark cloud draw a threatening hood over that giant discovery of 1806 by Col. Zebulon M. Pike, and I decided to camp in the vicinity of a dairy ranch. Anticipating a shower, I rode Skates, my fastest donkey, to the house with canteen and pail, leaving Coonskin to unpack, pitch tent, and build a wood-pile under shelter.
On approaching the house, I detected a pretty dairymaid in the doorway. I endeavored to dismount from my asinine steed with grace, but the picture so unbalanced me that I caught a foot in a stirrup and fell heels over appetite on the ground at my charmer's very feet, much to my embarrassment and her amusement.
"Can you spare me a quart of milk, Miss?" I inquired, lifting my hat. She smiled. Then, fearing lest I might have created the impression of begging, I asked; "can you sell some? I mean to pay for it, of course."
My words seemed to break her spell, and she replied sweetly, "We have two kinds—cream and skimmed milk." And her eyes sparkled. I caught my breath and gave her a chance to lose hers. "Per-per-perhaps you might mix the two safely—mightn't you?" I now felt the crisis coming, and twisted myself nervously. The maid laughed. It quieted my nerves.
"But," she returned, "you see, the cream is all engaged, and—and I would not like to sell you the skimmed milk, because—because we feed that to the hogs."