private table, on which is spread for my material benefit the finest meal I have eaten since leaving California.  Such snow-white bread.  Such delicious butter.  And the exquisite flavor of “spiced peach-butter” lingers in my fancy even now; and as if this were not enough for “two bits” (a fifty per cent, come-down from usual rates in the mountains), a splendid bouquet of flowers is set on the table to round off the repast with their grateful perfume.  As I enjoy the wholesome, substantial food, I fall to musing on the mighty chasm that intervenes between the elegant meal now before me and the “Melican plan-cae " of two weeks ago.  “You have a remarkably pleasant country here, Miss,” I venture to remark to the young lady who has presided over my table, and whom I judge to be the daughter of the house, as she comes to the door to see the bicycle.

“Yes; we have made it pleasant by planting so many orchards,” she answers, demurely.

“I should think the Mormons ought to be contented, for they possess the only good piece of farming country between California and ‘the States,’” I blunderingly continued.

“I never heard anyone say they are not contented, but their enemies,” replies this fair and valiant champion of Mormonism in a voice that shows she quite misunderstands my meaning.  “What I intended to say was, that the Mormon people are to be highly congratulated on their good sense in settling here,” I hasten to explain; for were I to leave at this house, where my treatment has been so gratifying, a shadow of prejudice against the Mormons, I should feel like kicking myself all over the Territory.  The women of the Mormon religion are instructed by the wiseacres of the church to win over strangers by kind treatment and by the charm of their conversation and graces; and this young lady has learned the lesson well; she has graduated with high honors.  Coming from the barren deserts of Nevada and Western Utah — from the land where the irreverent and irrepressible “Old Timer” fills the air with a sulphurous odor from his profanity and where nature is seen in its sternest aspect, and then suddenly finding one’s self literally surrounded by flowers and conversing with Beauty about Religion, is enough to charm the heart of a marble statue.  Ogden is reached for supper, where I quite expect to find a ’cycler or two (Ogden being a city of eight thousand inhabitants); but the nearest approach to a bicycler in Ogden is a gentleman who used to belong to a Chicago club, but who has failed to bring his “wagon” West with him.  Twelve miles of alternate riding and walking eastwardly from Ogden bring me to the entrance of Weber Canon, through which the Weber River, the Union Pacific Railroad, and an uncertain wagon-trail make their way through the Wahsatch Mountains on to the elevated table-lands of Wyoming Territory.  Objects of interest follow each other in quick succession along this part of the journey, and I have ample time