On September 11, about forty miles below Green River, we passed
Black's Fork, a tributary entering from the west. It is a stream of
considerable length, but was of little volume at that time. The banks
were cliffs about 300 feet high, rugged, dark, and overhanging. Here
were a half dozen eagles and many old nests--proof enough, if proof
were needed, that we were in a little visited country. What strong,
splendid birds they were; how powerful and graceful their flight as
they circled up, and up, into the clear blue sky!
Our next camp was at the Holmes' ranch, a few miles below Black's
Fork. We tried to buy some eggs of Walter Holmes, and were told that
we could have them on one condition--that we visit him that evening.
This was a price we were only too glad to pay, and the evening will
linger long in our memories.
Mr. Holmes entertained us with stories of hunting trips--after big
game in the wilds of Colorado; and among the lakes of the Wind River
Mountains, the distant source of the Green River. Mrs. Holmes and two
young ladies entertained us with music; and Jimmy, much to our
surprise, joined in with a full, rich baritone. It was late that night
when we rolled ourselves in our blankets, on the banks twenty feet
above the river.
Next morning we were shown a group of Mrs. Holmes' pets--several young
rabbits and a kitten, romping together in the utmost good fellowship.
The rabbits had been rescued from a watery grave in an irrigation
ditch and carefully nursed back to life.
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