unoccupied space.  This evening, while fording Pole Creek with the bicycle, my clothes, and shoes — all at the same time — the latter fall in the river; and m my wild scramble after the shoes I drop some of the clothes; then I drop the machine in my effort to save the clothes, and wind up by falling down in the water with everything.  Everything is fished out again all right, but a sad change has come over the clothes and shoes.  This morning I was mistaken for a homeless, friendless wanderer; this evening as I stand on the bank of Pole Creek with nothing over me but a thin mantle of native modesty, and ruefully wring the water out of my clothes, I feel considerably like one.  Pine Bluffs provides me with shelter for the night, and a few miles’ travel next morning takes me across the boundary-line into Nebraska My route leads down Pole Creek, with ridable roads probably half the distance, and low, rocky bluffs lining both sides of the narrow valley, and leading up to high, rolling prairie beyond.  Over these rocky bluffs the Indians were wont to stampede herds of buffalo, which falling over the precipitous bluffs, would be killed by hundreds, thus procuring an abundance of beef for the long winter.  There are no buffalo here now - they have departed with the Indians — and I shall never have a chance to add a bison to my game-list on this tour.  But they have left plenty of tangible evidence behind, in the shape of numerous deeply worn trails leading from the bluffs to the creek.

The prairie hereabouts is spangled with a wealth of divers-colored flowers that fill the morning air with gratifying perfume.  The air is soft and balmy, in striking contrast to the chilly atmosphere of early morning in the mountain country, where the accumulated snows of a thousand winters exert their chilling influence in opposition to the benign rays of old Sol.  This evening I pass through “Prairie-dog City,” the largest congregation of prairie-dog dwellings met with on the tour.  The “city” covers hundreds of acres of ground, and the dogs come out in such multitudes to present their noisy and excitable protests against my intrusion, that I consider myself quite justified in shooting at them.  I hit one old fellow fair and square, but he disappears like a flash down his hole, which now becomes his grave.  The lightning-like movements of the prairie-dog, and his instinctive inclination toward his home, combine to perform the last sad rites of burial for his body at death.  As, toward dark, I near Potter Station, where I expect accommodation for the night, a storm comes howling from the west, and it soon resolves into a race between me and the storm.  With a good ridable road I could win the race; but, being handicapped with an unridable trail, nearly obscured beneath tall, rank grass, the storm overtakes me, and comes in at Potter Station a winner by about three hundred lengths.

In the morning I start out in good season, and, nearing Sidney, the road becomes better, and I sweep into that enterprising town at a becoming pace.  I conclude to remain at Sidney for dinner, and pass the remainder of the forenoon visiting the neighboring fort.