Feeling the Pinch of Poverty

I got up very early this morning, and on a hired horse went nine miles up the Boulder Canyon, which is much extolled, but I was greatly disappointed with everything except its superb wagon road, and much disgusted with the laziness of the horse.  A ride of fifteen miles across the prairie brought me here early in the afternoon, but of the budget of letters which I expected there is not one.  Birdie looks in such capital condition that my host here can hardly believe that she has traveled over 500 miles.  I am feeling “the pinch of poverty” rather severely.  When I have paid my bill here I shall have exactly twenty-six cents left.  Evans was quite unable to pay the hundred dollars which he owes me, and, to save themselves, the Denver banks, though they remain open, have suspended payment, and would not cash my circular notes.  The financial straits are very serious, and the unreasoning panic which has set in makes them worse.  The present state of matters is — nobody has any money, so nothing is worth anything.  The result to me is that, nolens volens, I must go up to Estes Park, where I can live without ready money, and remain there till things change for the better.  It does not seem a very hard fate!  Long’s Peak rises in purple gloom, and I long for the cool air and unfettered life of the solitary blue hollow at its base.

I.L.B.