The plain through which Red River flows is fertile beyond description.  At a little distance it looks one vast level plain through which the windings of the river are marked by a dark line of woods fringing the whole length of the stream—­each tributary has also its line of forest—­a line visible many miles away over the great sea of grass.  As one travels on, there first rise above the prairie the summits of the trees; these gradually’! grow larger, until finally, after many hours, the river is reached.  Nothing else breaks the uniform level.  Standing upon the ground the eye ranges over many miles of grass, standing on a waggon, one doubles the area of vision, and to look over the plains from an elevation of twelve feet above the earth is to survey at a glance a space so vast that distance alone seems to bound its limits.  The effect of sunset over these oceans of verdure is very beautiful; a thousand hues spread themselves upon the grassy plains; a thousand tints of gold are cast along the heavens, and the two oceans of the sky and of the earth intermingle in one great blaze of glory at the very gates of the setting sun.  But to speak of sunsets now is only to anticipate.  Here at the Red River we are only at the threshold of the sunset, its true home yet lies many days journey to the west:  there, where the long shadows of the vast herds of bison trail slowly over the immense plains, huge and dark against the golden west; there, where the red man still sees in the glory of the setting sun the realization of his dream of heaven.

Shooting the prairie plover, which were numerous around the solitary shanty, gossipping with Mr. Connelly on Western life and Red River experiences—­I passed the long July day until evening came to a close.  Then came the time of the mosquito; he swarmed around the shanty, he came out from blade of grass and up from river sedge, from the wooded bay and the dusky prairie, in clouds and clouds, until the air hummed with his presence.  My host “made a smoke,” and the cattle came close around and stood into the very fire itself, scorching their hides in attempting to escape the stings of their ruthless tormentors.  My friend’s house was not a large one, but he managed to make me a shake-down on the loft overhead, and to it he led the way.  To live in a country infested by mosquitoes ought to insure to a person the possession of health, wisdom, and riches, for assuredly I know of nothing so conducive to early turning in and early turning out as that most pitiless pest.  On the present occasion I had not long turned in before I became aware of the presence of at least two other persons within the limits of the little loft, for only a few feet distant soft whispers became fintly audible.  Listening attentively, I gathered the following dialogue: 

“Do you think he has got it about him?”

“Maybe he has,” replied the first speaker with the voice of a woman.

“Are you shure he has it at all at all?”