“Hurrah!” cried Tom, who had now fully recovered from his recent unpleasantness with the silver-tip. “Hurrah! Here we are in Cinnabar.” He had jumped from the car, and was tapping at Kittie’s curtained window.

Kittie waved her hand to signify assent and keep him quiet, and before long all the passengers were hurrying through their breakfast and preparing for the long coach journey through the park. While this is going on, in the now motionless Northern Pacific train, we have time for a few words regarding the great reservation itself.

About one thirtieth of the new State of Wyoming—the extreme northwest corner—is reserved by the United States Government for the “Yellowstone National Park.” Nearly the whole area thus set apart remains a virgin wilderness, traversed only by rough and narrow carriage roads, and hardly affording shelter to the increasing number of tourists each summer in its hastily erected hotels. The whole park is about the size of Rhode Island and Delaware combined.

The Government, through the Secretary of the Interior, has issued certain regulations regarding the conduct of travelers in the park. These relate chiefly to camping, destroying trees, etc. One of the most stringent rules forbids the discharge of firearms within the limits of the Reservation. Mounted soldiers of the regular United States Army are scattered all through the park, doing police duty; and if you are caught firing a gun, or even having one (unsealed) in your possession, good-by to your fowling-piece and good-by to the park. The former is at once confiscated, and you are marched out of the latter without ceremony. Those travelers who wish to take firearms are obliged to have the lock sealed by a Government official, at the entrance of the park.

The result of this wholesome regulation is that wild game of all sorts is on the rapid increase, in this favored spot. About one hundred and fifty buffalo, the remnant of the immense herds that once roamed the Western prairies, are peacefully quartered somewhere among these wild hills—nobody knows exactly where.

Most of these facts Tom hastily repeated to his companions in the “Broadwater,” as the dining-car was called. The ride over to Mammoth Hot Springs was full of interest, the road following a wild mountain-stream, and finding its way farther and farther into the wilderness.

At one point an exclamation from Randolph called the attention of the rest to an eagle’s nest on a jutting cliff that almost overhung the road. The heads of the young eagles could be plainly seen over the edge of the nest, and far overhead soared the parent birds.

On making up the wagon parties at the hotel, the Percivals found to their delight that all could go in one team, including Mr. and Miss Selborne. Off they went with shouts and cheers, leaving the wonders of the “Mammoth” district for their return trip.

Up and up, along the edge of frightful precipices, where the road was built of planking, with great props, sheer out around promontories of rock; up and up, to the high tablelands of the park; through evergreen forests, along silent lakes, haunted by beavers and strange water-fowl; beside black cliffs of volcanic glass, or “obsidian”; across unbridged streams where the horses plunged into the swift-running waters, and the wagon lurched from side to side, hub-deep in the flood. So onward until they had covered twenty-two miles, and reached the Norris Geyser Basin, where dinner was served in a long, shed-like structure called a hotel.

As soon as the meal was over, the young people hurried ahead on foot, to see their first geysers. A quarter of a mile walk, and a sudden turn of the road brought them into view. Strange, uncanny things they were, bursting upward at intervals through the treacherous and chalk-like “formation,” and throwing their jets of steaming water into the air with hollow gurgles and growls from their hot throats.

The atmosphere was charged with sulphurous odors, and while the travelers were fascinated with the novelty and mystery of the scene, they were glad to enter their wagons once more and press forward on their journey. They all felt the rarity of the air, being about a thousand feet higher than the summit of Mt. Washington, above the level of the sea. It became very cold, too, as the sun went down. The girls were glad to don their sealskin capes, and the boys turned up their coat-collars.

Eighteen miles over the wildest country they had yet seen, brought them to the Lower Geyser Basin.

That night the hotel was so crowded that each room was shared by three or four occupants. Tom, Randolph, Fred and Rossiter were allotted to a chamber in an outbuilding. They had to reach it by an outside stairway, and I grieve to state that all four—not excepting the Reverend Rossiter Selborne—told stories and laughed over them until very nearly midnight.

Next morning Rossiter left the room before the boys were up, and walked out in the clear, cold air. He had not taken a dozen steps when he saw Bess and Kittie emerging from the main building, which was dignified by the term “hotel.” Hailing them merrily, he was soon at their side, and the three walked down to the Firehole River, from whose sulphurous waters there arose a warm, faint odor, as it foamed along its white-and-yellow-streaked bed.

Over they went, one by one, on a narrow log bridge to the further bank, which they followed down to a little fir grove. There they had a tiny camp-fire, taking great precautions to keep the blaze down and use only dry twigs, so as not to make a smoke.

After breakfast the teams were ready again, and the journey was resumed. For twelve miles they rode among geysers and springs, through low fir woods, over chalky formation, to the Upper Basin, where they were to spend the night.

On the way, it should be mentioned, they stopped to view a singular mud spring, called the “Mammoth Paint Pot.” There was a bowl-shaped crater nearly filled with gray, pasty mud, through the surface of which great bubbles slowly forced themselves, as in a boiling kettle of molasses candy, nearly done. As one of the guide-books said, there was “a continuous bubbling up of mud, producing sounds like a hoarsely whispered ‘plop, plop.’” Travelers were further informed that these bubbling circlets of mud fell into beautiful floral forms; but Kittie could find in them no resemblance to anything but electric bell knobs; while her mother plaintively declared they looked like nothing so much as old-fashioned doughnuts.

That evening Tom caused great merriment at the supper-table by gravely asking Mrs. Percival to “pass the plops,” he having previously ordered doughnuts for that purpose.

But if I were to tell you of all the wonders the Percivals visited and heard with their ears and saw with their eyes, I might be accused of writing a guide-book myself. I can only add that during the next forty-eight hours our friends became intimately acquainted with a dozen or more great geysers, knowing their names and the times for their appearance to the hour, if not the minute.

There was the “Excelsior” (this was passed on the right between the Lower and Upper Basins), the largest geyser in the world; the “Giant,” throwing a huge volume of scalding water high into the air every eight days; the “Grotto,” with a crater of strange, irregular walls as if built by gnomes; the “Castle,” to the brink of which two of the girls climbed and gazed fearlessly down into the terrible throat; and “Old Faithful” which spouts a hundred feet once every sixty-five minutes, and has probably been as prompt as a clock, scientific men tell us, for the last twenty thousand years.

A comical incident occurred as the party were standing near the last-named geyser waiting for it to “erupt.” Tom had timed it by his watch, and had given out word that it would begin to play in just three minutes and a half.

While the words were on his lips, a man was seen approaching from a camp near by, carrying a bucket and some clothes which he evidently intended to wash in warm water from one of the many pools near the crater’s mouth. It was then merely a hole, some four or five feet in diameter, from which came occasional wreaths of steam, and an ominous gurgling growl which the new-comer disregarded altogether.

“You wait!” cried Tom to the rest. “He isn’t near enough to get hurt, but he’ll be about the most astonished man in Wyoming in just one minute and three quarters.”

The camper proceeded to dip up a bucket full of water with great coolness, and, having taken a comfortable seat on a ridge of “formation,” was just proceeding to immerse his wash, when up came “Old Faithful’s” head. In less time than it takes to tell it, the great, roaring, boiling jet was hurling itself far aloft, and descending in floods of hot, sulphurous water. The man had given one startled look over his shoulder at the first outbreak, and then fled like a deer, leaving his property to be reclaimed later in the day. The sight of his ludicrously startled face and flying heels was irresistible, and the boys screamed with laughter.

Beside the great, active geysers, there were multitudes of hot springs, some of them many feet wide and deep, with treacherous, overhanging banks and exquisitely tinted depths of turquoise and sapphire, through which arose a continuous train of silvery bubbles. There was a story told, that summer, of a lady who had neglected the precautions which others took, and straying carelessly among these springs, broke through the thin crust of sulphurous deposit. She was instantly drawn out, but not before she was terribly scalded.

While the Percivals were at the “Upper Geyser Basin,” they were invited to witness a queer sight in the edge of the woods about a quarter of a mile from the hotel, just at dusk. One of the men employed about the place began to call coaxingly, “Barney! Barney!” And now a dark form appeared among the pines, and out came a huge black bear. He approached timidly within a few feet of the silent group, now advancing, now bounding lightly away at the cracking of a twig, and took several pieces of raw meat from a stump near by. When his silent meal was finished, he gave the spectators one inquiring look, and wheeling round, disappeared in the shadow of the forest.

All this time it was very cold, especially at night when, although it was in August, ice formed over pools about the hotel.

Reluctantly the tourists left the wonders of the “Upper Basin” behind, and drove on toward the next point of interest, Yellowstone Lake.

“Give us the points, Tom,” Randolph sings out, as the driver cracks his whip and the wagon rattles down the road. “Tell us about the Lake.”

“Nearly eight thousand feet above the sea,” rejoins Tom. He is so ready with his figures that skeptical Kittie declares he makes them up, whenever his memory fails him.

“Perhaps you think,” rejoins Thomas, with dignity, “that the Lake doesn’t cover one hundred and thirty-nine square miles, and hasn’t a hundred miles of shore line, and isn’t chock-full of splendid trout, and hasn’t a beautiful beach of obsidian five miles long, ‘reflecting the sun’s rays like brilliant gems,’ and doesn’t”—

“Oh! stop, stop, Davy; I’ll come down,” cried Kittie; while Fred strikes up “Annie Rooney” at the top of his voice. It was afternoon when they drove down into a pretty valley where were clustered three or four large white tents.

“What’s this—a circus?” shouted Tom.

“It’s Larry Matthews’ hotel,” replied the driver.

Out came Larry himself, as the teams drew up with a flourish, before the door of the principal tent.

“Glad to see yez, ladies an’ gintlemen!” he cried, with broad, rich brogue. “Step right into me parlor, but be careful of the carpet, av ye plase!”

As the tent knew no floor but turf, this raised a laugh, and this was followed by another and another at Larry’s quaint observations, which he showered without stint on his guests.

When they were all seated at long tables, he was everywhere at once.

“Milk, sor? Milk it is. Eggs? there’s wan the little speckled hin laid for you, mem! Coffee? Do take another cup! There’s plenty more to be had—the geyser’s playin’ right along.”

The meal was eaten in a gale of merriment, and all hands declared that sandwiches, boiled eggs and coffee—for of these viands it largely consisted—had never tasted so good.

After dinner there was an hour or two of leisure, during which the travelers strolled about on the hillside overlooking “Trout Creek” (for which this little encampment was named), securing kodak views, and enjoying life generally.

“Good-by, sor! Good-by, mem!” shouted Larry to his guests, as they at length clambered to their seats and rode off. “Long life to yez all! Come ag’in!”

They now had a dozen miles of beautiful prairie, river and mountain scenery before reaching the Lake. The ride was not without attractions also, that bordered on the perilous.

At one point they were told by the driver that only three weeks before, a huge buffalo had suddenly emerged from the woods, and with lowered head galloped across the road. The six horses of the team immediately in front had been thrown into wild panic, and wheeling about, had dashed off, dragging a broken wagon after them.

“So I had to dodge a buffalo and a runaway team,” concluded John grimly.

The wheel-tracks showed plainly in the turf where he had lashed his own horses out of the road. He added that one of the passengers, a lady from the East, was quite severely injured in jumping from the forward wagon.

They saw deer feeding quietly beside the road. Great white pelicans floated on the calm surface of the river; eagles flew overhead in full view. There are many pumas, or “mountain lions,” as they are called there, in the lonelier tracts of the park, and bears, brown, black and grizzly, roam to and fro unmolested.

But the great feature of the ride was presented about five miles further on—when they were driving close to the banks of a clear flowing stream.

“What’s that creature down by the water?” asked Adelaide carelessly. “A calf?”

They all glanced toward the river, when Tom—who was unquestionably authority on the subject—sung out, “A bear! A bear!”

The driver pulled up his horses with a jerk, and none too soon. Up scrambled a huge brown, or “cinnamon” bear from the bank of the river, not a hundred yards ahead of them. She jumped a log which lay along the embankment, and crossing the road, began to climb the steep, wooded hill on their left.

Presently a woolly cub, about the size of a half-grown Newfoundland dog, came hurrying after her. He tried to climb the log as she had done, but after straining to get over, exactly like a boy endeavoring to mount a horizontal bar, tumbled backward into the brush.

Fred and Tom cheered him on, and the second attempt succeeded. Down he went, head over heels, into the dusty road, and then how he did scramble up hill after his mother! The boys laughed and shouted to him until both bears were out of sight among the pines, far up the mountain slope.

The horses had acted bravely during this scene, merely standing with quivering limbs and alert ears until little Bruin and his mother had passed.

At Yellowstone Lake the boys hastily organized a fishing excursion, and came back with a fine string of trout, averaging a pound to a pound and a half apiece. In the evening they took the girls out on the lake for a moonlight row. The songs they sang were of a gentler and more plaintive character than usual; for they realized that the beautiful journey over gulf and glacier, and through Wonderland, was fast drawing to a close.

“Row, brothers, row!” rang out Pet’s sweet soprano; and even Fred’s “Jolly boating weather” had an undertone of sadness, as the chorus came in, full and strong, at the end of each verse. Ah! how far ahead a “good-by” casts its shadow. How will it seem to reach a land where the word is not known!

“The rapids are near, and the daylight’s past,” sang Pet; while the moonlight quivered on the waters of the strange, wild mountain lake.

I must hurry on, myself, in my story of those fair, sweet days and silvery nights; for I find myself lingering only too long among the hills—dreading perhaps, as I trust some of you do, my boy and girl readers, the parting from the glad young lives that, in the course of these six volumes, have become a part of my very own. Yes, my manly Randolph, impulsive, good-hearted Tom, merry Kittie, golden-haired Pet, and sweet, gentle “Captain Bess,” I must leave you all too soon, in the fair morning-land where hearts beat warmly and young faces glow with mirth and noble resolve; whither in very truth, I have tried, poorly and feebly but most earnestly, to take the real, living boys and girls who have gathered around the pine-cone fires and many a time have sent me words of cheer from their own far-away firesides, year after year. God bless them, every one!

Randolph and Fred were loath to leave the fine fishing-grounds of the Lake, but the word was “Onward!” and another day’s ride took the party away from those picturesque shores to the Grand CaÑon of the Yellowstone.

On horseback they rode slowly along the banks of this mighty ravine, whose tawny flanks have given the river its name. One moment the girls were speechless with laughter over Tom’s dismay as his horse began to slide down a steep descent; the next they caught their breath with wonder and awe, as they came out on the brink of the mighty caÑon, and, making their way on foot to the very edge of a jutting promontory, gazed downward into the fearful depths of a sheer thousand feet below.

A few rods from their narrow perch was an eagle’s nest, and it made the head giddy and the pulse beat fast to see the great birds float out over the abyss. Coiling along the very base of the precipices was the river, a silken thread of twisted white and emerald.

But oh! the Falls. Here the Yellowstone gathered itself, at the head of the CaÑon, and leaped abroad into the air, falling three hundred feet before it knitted together its torn threads on the rocks below.

“In His hands are the deep places of the earth,” murmured Mr. Percival, half to himself.

“The strength of the hills is His also!” finished the young clergyman, involuntarily baring his head, as if in the visible presence of the Creator.

“How can He—how can He think of our little every-day-nesses, and of that!” said Bess, not turning to the last speaker, but knowing that he heard.

Rossiter stooped, picked a single blade of grass from the brink of the awful cataract, and handed it to her without a word. And she understood, and was grateful.