CHAPTER XVIII
THE GIANT PAINT POT
It was indeed a sight well calculated to make the boys stare, and rub their eyes in wonder, as though they half believed they must be dreaming. If these wonders of Yellowstone Park elicit cries of delight from tens of thousands of tourists in these modern times, imagine how remarkable they must have seemed to these pioneer lads more than a hundred years ago.
“When you called it a paint pot, Roger, I think you hit the bull’s-eye, for it does look like that, with all those colors boiling up in such a crazy fashion!” Dick presently remarked, breaking the spell that seemed to bind them.
“But what is it made of, I’d like to know?” demanded the puzzled Roger.
“Colored clay, in the shape of mud, that is boiling all the time. Be careful how you put your hand to it. See how the steam keeps on rising. It must be pretty hot stuff!”
“But what makes it boil that way? There must be a fire of some kind deep down in the earth?”
“Nothing else would make all these fountains of hot water, and even the rocks in some places feel warm,” admitted the other lad, who was hardly less amazed than Roger himself.