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he tells a story about a wind-storm down in Colorado, that dashed the sand against a window so furiously, that a common pane of glass was converted into
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in a single night! We met a good many Coloradoans, who were laughing at this
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and were told to set it down among other good
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Rocky Mountain stories. The fact is, people who live out there on those vast Plains, or among those great Mountains, become demoralized with the amplitude of everything; and when they attempt to narrate, unconsciously--I suppose--get to exaggerating. Not intentionally; of course not. But bigness
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is only a poor apology for
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after all. The first night out, there being but five of us, four each
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a corner, while the fifth man
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on the middle seat. Along about 11 P. M. we struck a piece of extra good road, the conversation gradually wound up, each settled back into his great-coat and robe, and presently we were all fairly off into dreamland. A half hour or so rolls by, when bump goes the coach against an obstinate rock, or chuck into a malicious mud-hole; your neighbor's head comes bucking against you, or you go bucking wildly against him; the man on the middle seat rolls off and wakes up, with a growl or objurgation, that seems half excusable; your friends on the front seat get their legs tangled and twisted up with yours, or you get yours twisted and tangled up with theirs--you don't exactly know which; and, in short, everybody wakes up chaotic and confused, not to say dismal and cross. Of course you try it again after a while, you wrap your robes still better about you, you adjust your legs more carefully than before, and settling down again into your corner, think now you will surely get a good sleep. However, you hardly get to nodding fairly, before there comes a repetition of your former dismal experiences, and so the night wears on like a hideous dream. A series of unusual jolts and bumps disgusts every one with even the attempt to sleep, and presently all hands drift into a general talk or smoke. The history of one night is the wretched history of all--only each successive one, as you advance, becomes
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Long before reaching Fort Bridger, we were in a sort of a half-comatose condition, with every bone aching, and every inch of flesh sore, and with the romance of stage-coaching gone from us forever. Now, if a man's body were made of india-rubber, or his arms and legs were telescopic, so as to lengthen out and shorten up, perhaps such continuous travelling would not be so bad. But, as it is, I confess, it was a great weariness to the flesh, and looking back on it now, with the Pacific Railroad completed--its express trains and palace-cars in motion--I don't really see how poor human nature managed to endure it. Conversation is a good thing _per se_, but most men converse themselves out in a day or two. So, a good joke or a popular song helps to fill the hiatus somewhat, and accordingly we buried
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John Brown, and
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Rallied round the flag, and
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Marched through Georgia, day after day, until they got to be a