Riding through Wyoming's foothills,

With their rugged summit lines

Stretched across the clear horizon,

Fringed with pointed spruce and pines,

He beheld, one early morning,

Rising slowly to the sky,

Smoke--the thin and gauzy column

Of a camp fire built close by;

And, on looking down the valley

With exultant, ringing cheer,

He beheld the prairie schooner

And the MacIntyres near.

27  

On an open spot of grass land

Gilded by the rising sun,

Sloping sharply to the crevice

Where the mountain waters run,

Ike, reclining, watched the horses,

Now increased to quite a band,

While above him, in the timber,

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