Morning Glories

This is surely one of the most entrancing spots on earth.  Oh, that I could paint with pen or brush!  From my bed I look on Mirror Lake, and with the very earliest dawn, when objects are not discernible it lies there absolutely still, a purplish lead-color.  Then suddenly into its mirror flash inverted peaks, at first a bright orange, then changing into red, making the dawn darker all round.  This is a new sight, each morning new.  Then the peaks fade, and when morning is no longer “spread upon the mountains,” the pines are mirrored in my lake almost as solid objects, and the glory steals downwards and a red rush warms the clear atmosphere of the Park, and the hoar-frost sparkles and the crested blue jays step forth daintily on the jeweled grass.  The majesty and beauty grow on me daily.  As I crossed from my cabin just now, and the long mountain shadows lay on the grass, and room and color gained new meanings, I was almost false to Hawaii; I couldn’t go on writing for the glory of the sunset, but went out and sat on a rock to see the deepening blue in the dark canyons, and the peaks becoming rose color one by one, then fading into sudden ghastliness, the awe-inspiring heights of Long’s Peak fading last.  Then came the glories of the afterglow, when the orange and lemon of the east faded into gray, and then gradually the gray for some distance above the horizon brightened into a cold blue, and above the blue into a broad band of rich, warm red, with an upper band of rose color; above it hung a big cold moon.  This is the “daily miracle” of evening, as the blazing peaks in the darkness of Mirror Lake are the miracle of morning.  perhaps this scenery is not lovable, but, as if it were a strong stormy character, it has an intense fascination.

The routine of my day is breakfast at seven, then I go back and “do” my cabin and draw water from the lake, read a little, loaf a little, return to the big cabin and sweep it alternately with Mrs. Dewy, after which she reads aloud till dinner at twelve.  Then I ride with Mr. Dewy, or by myself, or with Mrs. Dewy, who is learning to ride cavalier fashion in order to accompany her invalid husband, or go after cattle till supper at six.  After that we all sit in the living-room, and I settle down to write to you, or mend my clothes, which are dropping to pieces.  Some sit round the table playing at eucre, the strange hunters and prospectors lie on the floor smoking, and rifles are cleaned, bullets cast, fishing-flies made, fishing-tackle repaired, boots are waterproofed, part-songs are hung, and about half-past eight I cross the crisp grass to my cabin, always expecting to find something in it.  We all wash our own clothes, and as my stock is so small, some part of every day has to be spent at the wash-tub.  Politeness and propriety always prevail in our mixed company, and though various grades of society are represented, true democratic equality prevails, not its counterfeit, and there is neither forwardness on one side nor condescension on the other.

Evans left for Denver ten days ago, taking his wife and family to the Plains for the winter, and the mirth of our party departed with him.  Edwards is somber, except when he lies on the floor in the evening, and tells stories of his march through Georgia with Sherman.  I gave Evans a 100-dollar note to exchange, and asked him to buy me a horse for my tour, and for three days we have expected him.  The mail depends on him.  I have had no letters from you for five weeks, and can hardly curb my impatience.  I ride or walk three or four miles out on the Longmount trail two or three times a day to look for him.  Others, for different reasons, are nearly equally anxious.  After dark we start at every sound, and every time the dogs bark all the able-bodied of us turn out en mass.  “Wait for the wagon” has become a nearly maddening joke.

I.L B.