shade in the south lurks the Gila Monster, terrible in name at any rate, a fearful object to look upon, a remnant of antediluvian times, a huge, clumsy, two-foot lizard.  The horned toad is quite as forbidding in appearance, but he is a harmless little thing.  Here we are in the rattlesnake’s paradise.  Nine species are found along the Mexican border; and no wonder.  The country seems made for them,—­the rocks, cliffs, canyons, pitahayas, Joshuas, and all the rest of it.  Notwithstanding their venom they have beauty, and when one is seen at the bottom of some lonely, unfrequented canyon, tail buzzing, head erect, and defiant, glistening eyes, a man feels like apologising for the intrusion.  Above in the limpid sunlight floats the great eagle, deadly enemy of the rattlesnake; from a near-by bush the exquisite song of the mocking-bird trills out, and far up the rocks the hoof-strokes of the mountain sheep strike with a rattle of stones that seems music in the crystal air.  Yonder the wild turkey calls from the pine trees, or we hark to the whir of the grouse or the pine-hen.  Noisy magpies startle the silence of the northern districts, and the sage-hen and the rabbit everywhere break the solitude of your walk.  Turn up a stone and sometimes you see a revengeful scorpion:  anon the huge tarantula comes forth to look at the camp-fire.  As one sits resting on a barren ledge, the little swifts come out to make his acquaintance.  Whistle softly and a bright-coated fellow will run up even upon your shoulder to show his appreciation of the Swan Song.  Antelope dart scornfully away across the open plains, and the little coyote halts in his course to turn the inquisitive gaze of his pretty bright eyes upon this new animal crossing his path.  The timber wolf, not satisfied with staring, follows, perhaps, as if enjoying company, at the same time occasionally licking his chaps.  When the sun goes down his long-drawn bark rolls out into the clear winter sky like a song to the evening star, rendering the blaze of the camp-fire all the more comfortable.  Under the moonlight the sharper bark of the coyote swells a chorus from the cliffs, and the rich note of the night-storm is accentuated by the long screech of the puma prowling on the heights.  In daylight his brother, the wild-cat, reminds one of Tabby at home by the fireside.  There is the lynx, too, among the rocks; and on the higher planes the deer, elk, and bear have their homes.  In Green River Valley once roamed thousands of bison.  The more arid districts have the fewest large animals, and conversely the more humid the most, though in the latter districts the fauna and flora approach that of the eastern part of the continent, while as the former are approached the difference grows wider and wider, till in the southern lowlands there is no resemblance to eastern types at all.  Once the streams everywhere had thousands of happy beaver, with their homes in the river banks, or in waters deepened by their clever dams.  Otter, too, were