The stage coach, the old-fashioned one with the lofty seat for the driver and the boot and the thorough-brace, the rocking-cradle vehicle that served so well when civilization was beating its way westward fifty years ago, holds the first right-of-way through the Park. Driven from use almost everywhere else by the iron horse, it has found safe refuge there, and neither the railways nor the automobiles can enter to oppose it.

A good half of the pleasures of the tour is found in the coaching. To watch for the coming of the stage at the door of the Inn where the baggage is piled, and the porters and bell boys stand expectant—to hear the clatter of the wheels, the sound of hoofs, and to see the gaily harnessed horses in conscious pride swing the coach gracefully under the Porte Cochere—to be wheeled over the winding, dustless roads at ten miles an hour behind prancing leaders and wheelers—to be garbed as you please without thought of style or detail—to breathe air distilled among the fragrant pines—to be touched by breezes that fan your cheek and dishevel your hair—to be free from all care and abandon yourself to the delights that come with the everchanging scenes that panoramic Nature is constantly unfolding to your gaze—is to experience an exhilaration never to be found among the busy haunts of men.

The drivers, gentlemanly and skillful, are full of information, and you do the 158 miles from Yellowstone around the circle back to Yellowstone with so little fatigue that you regret the trip is not longer.