wrapped in the blue veil of distance; the sparse gray-green sage, ugly in itself, but making complete a beautiful picture; the occasional glimpse we had of shy, beautiful wild creatures.  So much happiness can be crowded into so short a time.  I was glad, though, when Cora Belle’s home became a part of our beautiful picture.  It is situated among great red buttes, and there is a blue lake back of the house.  Around the lake is a fringe of willows.  Their house is a low, rambling affair, with a long, low porch and a red clay roof.  Before the house is a cotton-wood tree, its gnarled, storm-twisted branches making it seem to have the “rheumatiz.”  There is a hop-vine at one end of the porch.  It had not come out when we were there, but the dead vine clung hopelessly to its supports.

Little Cora Belle just bubbled with delight, and her grandparents were scarcely better than she.  Spring house-cleaning was just finished, and they have company so seldom that they made us feel that we were doing them a favor by stopping.  Poor old “Pa” hobbled out to help put the team away, and when they came back, Cora Belle asked me out to help prepare supper, so I left Mr. Stewart with “Granny” and “Pa” to listen to their recitals and to taste their many medicines.  Cora Belle is really an excellent housekeeper.  Her cooking would surprise many people.  Her bread was delicious, and I am sure I never tasted anything better than the roasted leg of lamb she gave us for supper.  I am ashamed to tell you how much I ate of her carrot jam.  From where I sat I had a splendid view of the sunset across the lake.  Speaking of things singly, Wyoming has nothing beautiful to offer.  Taken altogether, it is grandly beautiful, and at sunrise and sunset the “heavens declare His glory.”

Cora Belle is so animated and so straightforward, so entirely clean in all her thoughts and actions, that she commands love and respect at one and the same time.  After supper her grandfather asked her to sing and play for us.  Goodness only knows where they got the funny little old organ that Cora Belle thinks so much of.  It has spots all over it of medicine that has been spilled at different times, and it has, as Cora Belle said, lost its voice in spots; but that doesn’t set back Cora Belle at all, she plays away just as if it was all right.  Some of the keys keep up a mournful whining and groaning, entirely outside of the tune.  Cora Belle says they play themselves.  After several “pieces” had been endured, “Pa” said, “Play my piece, Cory Belle”; so we had “Bingen on the Rhine” played and sung from A to izzard.  Dear old “Pa,” his pain-twisted old face just beamed with pride.  I doubt if heaven will have for him any sweeter music than his “baby’s” voice.  Granny’s squeaky, trembly old voice trailed in after Cora Belle’s, always a word or two behind.  “Tell my friends and companions when they meet and scrouge around”; that is the way they sang it, but no one would have cared