The following letter is from Captain Jack relative to the expedition under his charge, sent out for the purpose of bringing in the murdering group of Utes, against whom the government seems to maintain a feeling, it not of enmity, at least of coolness, and perhaps unfriendliness.

The Indian is not generally supposed to be a humorist, or inclined to be facetious; but the letter below would seem to indicate that there is, at the least, a kind of grim, rough, uncouth attempt on his part to make a paragrapher of himself.

I am not at liberty to give my reasons to the public for the publication of this letter; nor even the manner of securing it. Those to whom my word has been passed relative to a strict secrecy on my part in the above connection, shall not be betrayed. Friends who know me are aware that my word is as good as my bond, and even better than my promissory note.

On the Wing, February 1, 1880.

Dear Sir:—I have a little leisure in which to write of our journey, and will dictate this letter to an amanuensis. [Amanuensis is a Ute word; but you will understand it in this connection. It does not mean anything wrong.]

We find much snow through the mountains, which impedes our progress very materially. We crossed a canyon yesterday where there was a good deal. I should think there might be 1,500 feet in depth of it. It filled the canyon up full, and bulged up ten or fifteen feet above the sides. I composed a short poem about it. I knew that it was wrong to do so; but almost every one else has composed a poem on the beautiful snow, then why should I, although I have not taken out my naturalization papers, be denied the sweet solace of song? I said:

O drifted whiteness covering

The fair face of nature,

Pure as the sigh of a blessed spirit

On the eternal shores, you

Glitter in the summer sun

Considerable. My mortal

Ken seems weak and

Helpless in the midst of

Your dazzling splendor,

And I would hide my

Diminished head like

Serf unclothed in presence

Of his mighty King.

You lie engulphed

Within the cold embrace

Of rocky walls and giant

Cliffs. You spread out

Your white mantle and

Enwrap the whole broad

Universe, and a portion

Of York State.

You seem content,

Resting in silent whiteness

On the frozen breast of

The cold, dead earth. You

Think apparently that

You are middling white;

But once I was in the

Same condition. I was

Pure as the beautiful snow,

But I fell. It was a

Right smart fall, too.

It churned me up a

Good deal and nearly

Knocked the supreme

Duplex from its intellectual

Throne. It occurred in

Washington, D. C.

But thou

Snow, lying so spotless

On the frozen earth, as

I remarked before, thou

Hast indeed a soft,

Soft thing. Thou comest

Down like the silent

Movements of a specter,

And thy fall upon the

Earth is like the tread

Of those who walk the

Shores of immortality.

You lie around all

Winter drawing your

Annuities till spring,

And then the soft

Breath from the south with

Touch seductive bids you

Go, and you light out

With more or less alacrity.

Then rest, O snow,

Where thou hast settled

Down, secure in conscious

Purity. Avoid so far as

Possible the capital of

A republic, and the

Blessing of yours truly

Will settle down upon

You like—like—a

Hired man.

There are, no doubt, some little irregularities about this poem, but I scratched it off one night in camp when my chilblains were hurting me and itching so that I had to write a poem or swear a good deal.

We have not seen anything as yet to shoot at.

That is, of course, I refer to what we came here for. I shot at what I thought to be Douglas the other day, but it turned out to be an old Indian who was out skirmishing around after cotton-tails for his dinner. I snuffed his light out, however. By this time he is chasing cotton-tails in a better, brighter sphere, where the wicked cease from troubling and life is one prolonged Fourth of July. Occasionally we see a squaw and shoot her just for practice. I am getting so I'm pretty good on a wheel and fire.

Douglas ought to be easy to indentify, however, at a great distance, for his features are peculiar. He has a large nose. It is like a premium summer squash, only larger. I don't think I ever saw such a wealth of nose as his. Napoleon used to say that a large nose is indicative of strong character. According to this rule, Douglas must have a character stronger than an eight-mule team.

We start out early to-morrow and hope to bag something, but cannot tell how we will make it. I will report as soon as I get to where there is a telegraph. I do not allow any reporters along with me. A great many of them wanted to go along with me for the excitement. I told them, however, that I could furnish the press with such reports as I saw fit to furnish, and I did not want to take a young man away from the haunts of civilization and waltz him around among the hills of Colorado, for it isn't so much of a success as an editorial picnic after all. I often wish that I could run down to dinner as I did at Washington and eat all I need. I also yearn for the hot Scotch and the spiced rum of the pale-face, and the Scotch plaid lemon pie, and the indestructible blanc-mange, and the buckwheat cakes like door-mats that I got at Washington.

But I must attend to the business of the Great Father, and prepare the remains which he requires for his grand Indian funeral. Till then, adieu. Jack.