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Denise Henry
Yellowstone Nights
Yellowstone Nights
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Yellowstone Nights by Herbert Quick, author of “Alladin & Co.,” “Virginia of the Air Lanes,” etc.
Chapter 1.
It was August the third--and the rest of it. Being over Montana, and the Rockies, the skies were just as described by Truthful James. In the little park between the N. P. Station and the entrance to Yellowstone Park a stalwart young fellow and a fluffy, lacy, Paquined girl floated from place to place with their feet seven or eight inches from the earth--or so it seemed. They disappeared behind some shrubbery and sat down on a bench, where the young man hugged the girl ferociously, and she, with that patient endurance which is the wonder and glory of womanhood, suffered it uncomplainingly. In fact she reciprocated it.
Note that we said a moment ago that they disappeared. From whose gaze? Not from ours, for we saw them sit and--and what followed. Their disappearance was from the view of a slender man of medium height who was off toward the station, inspecting the salvias, the phloxes, the cannas, the colei, the materials with which the walks were paved, and the earth in the flower-beds. He looked the near things over with a magnifying-glass, and scrutinized the far landscape with field-glasses. When he removed his traveling cap, one saw that he was bald, though not so bald as he seemed--his weak and neutral hair blended so in color with the neutral shades of his face and garb.
As he looked at things near and far, from the formal garden of the little park to the towering peak of Electric Mountain, which flew a pennon of cloud off to the west, or Sepulcher Mountain, half lost in an unaccustomed haze to the south, but displaying above the blue its enormous similitude of a grave, with the stone at head and foot, he made notes in his huge pocket-book, and in making notes he approached closer and closer to the big boy and little girl on the bench. In fact, he stopped on the other side of the bush, and as the lovers kissed for the tenth time, at least, he stepped round toward them, peering into the top of the bushes, pencil poised to jot down the cause of the chirping sound which had greeted his ears.
“I think I heard young birds in this bush,” said he.
“You did,” responded the young man, blushing.
“This park is full of them,” said the girl, rather less embarrassed.
“Did you note the species?” queried he of the glasses. “I seem quite unable to catch
sight of them.”
“They are turtle-doves,” said the girl.
“Gulls!” said the man.
The girl giggled hysterically. The naturalist was protesting that gulls never nest in such places, and the young man was becoming hopelessly confused, when a fourth figure joined the group. He was clad in garments of the commonest sort--but the girl was at once struck by the fact that he wore a soft roll collar on his flannel shirt, and a huge red silk neckerchief. Moreover, he carried a long whip which he trailed after him in the grass.
“Local color at last!” she whispered to her lover. “I know we’re going to have a shooting or a cow-boy adventure!”
“Well,” the new-comer said, “do you go with us, or not, Doc?”
“Go with you?” asked the ornithologist. “Go where?”
“Tour of the Park?” replied the man with the whip. “I’m having hard work to get a load.”
“I think,” said the person addressed, “that I can finish my inspection of the Park on foot. It is, in fact, surprisingly small, and not at all what I had expected. I have been pacing it off. There are very few acres in it--”
“I’ll be dog-goned,” said the man with the whip, “if he don’t think _this_ is the Yellowstone Park! Stranger, look at yon beautiful arch, erected by Uncle Sam out of hexagonal blocks of basalt! That marks the entrance to the Wonderland of the World, a matchless nat’ral park of more’n three thousand square miles, filled with unnat’ral wonders of nature! This is the front yard of the railroad station. It’ll take you days and days to do the Park--an’ years to do it right.”
“Oh, in that case,” responded the investigator, “of course you may rely upon my joining you!”
“I want two more, lady,” said the driver. “What say?”
... continued...
Chapter 1.
It was August the third--and the rest of it. Being over Montana, and the Rockies, the skies were just as described by Truthful James. In the little park between the N. P. Station and the entrance to Yellowstone Park a stalwart young fellow and a fluffy, lacy, Paquined girl floated from place to place with their feet seven or eight inches from the earth--or so it seemed. They disappeared behind some shrubbery and sat down on a bench, where the young man hugged the girl ferociously, and she, with that patient endurance which is the wonder and glory of womanhood, suffered it uncomplainingly. In fact she reciprocated it.
Note that we said a moment ago that they disappeared. From whose gaze? Not from ours, for we saw them sit and--and what followed. Their disappearance was from the view of a slender man of medium height who was off toward the station, inspecting the salvias, the phloxes, the cannas, the colei, the materials with which the walks were paved, and the earth in the flower-beds. He looked the near things over with a magnifying-glass, and scrutinized the far landscape with field-glasses. When he removed his traveling cap, one saw that he was bald, though not so bald as he seemed--his weak and neutral hair blended so in color with the neutral shades of his face and garb.
As he looked at things near and far, from the formal garden of the little park to the towering peak of Electric Mountain, which flew a pennon of cloud off to the west, or Sepulcher Mountain, half lost in an unaccustomed haze to the south, but displaying above the blue its enormous similitude of a grave, with the stone at head and foot, he made notes in his huge pocket-book, and in making notes he approached closer and closer to the big boy and little girl on the bench. In fact, he stopped on the other side of the bush, and as the lovers kissed for the tenth time, at least, he stepped round toward them, peering into the top of the bushes, pencil poised to jot down the cause of the chirping sound which had greeted his ears.
“I think I heard young birds in this bush,” said he.
“You did,” responded the young man, blushing.
“This park is full of them,” said the girl, rather less embarrassed.
“Did you note the species?” queried he of the glasses. “I seem quite unable to catch
sight of them.”
“They are turtle-doves,” said the girl.
“Gulls!” said the man.
The girl giggled hysterically. The naturalist was protesting that gulls never nest in such places, and the young man was becoming hopelessly confused, when a fourth figure joined the group. He was clad in garments of the commonest sort--but the girl was at once struck by the fact that he wore a soft roll collar on his flannel shirt, and a huge red silk neckerchief. Moreover, he carried a long whip which he trailed after him in the grass.
“Local color at last!” she whispered to her lover. “I know we’re going to have a shooting or a cow-boy adventure!”
“Well,” the new-comer said, “do you go with us, or not, Doc?”
“Go with you?” asked the ornithologist. “Go where?”
“Tour of the Park?” replied the man with the whip. “I’m having hard work to get a load.”
“I think,” said the person addressed, “that I can finish my inspection of the Park on foot. It is, in fact, surprisingly small, and not at all what I had expected. I have been pacing it off. There are very few acres in it--”
“I’ll be dog-goned,” said the man with the whip, “if he don’t think _this_ is the Yellowstone Park! Stranger, look at yon beautiful arch, erected by Uncle Sam out of hexagonal blocks of basalt! That marks the entrance to the Wonderland of the World, a matchless nat’ral park of more’n three thousand square miles, filled with unnat’ral wonders of nature! This is the front yard of the railroad station. It’ll take you days and days to do the Park--an’ years to do it right.”
“Oh, in that case,” responded the investigator, “of course you may rely upon my joining you!”
“I want two more, lady,” said the driver. “What say?”
... continued...