We now become aware that a train is approaching on the single track that is hanging over the grade on the canyon side. We have no choice but to unfurl our wings and rise in the air, as the engineer wildly blows his whistle. Brushing the pine tree tops, we cross over the peak and seek the track on the other side of it, selecting an opening in a thicket for that purpose. Finding it occupied by miners digging away, we hallo, when they look every way but up, as we land in their midst as though dropped from the sky. Their consternation is depicted in set jaws, as we give military salute and roll off. This feat, so skilfully accomplished, denotes an expert hand in our motorman, who had been practicing faithfully, as a bird to fly, a swimmer or cyclist. As exhilarant to him as to us, and much lessened our distance, causes Mae to clap her hands and ask, “Why not fly all the time?” “We want to save that force until we have more serious need,” Charley replies. “I hope that poor boy who fell over the log while eating his breakfast and ran away, will recover and go back,” makes us all laugh uproariously, when zipp! whir-r!! over we go and lay on our side, the wheels still revolving. The grade just here, level from the ground excavated by the miners, saved us from a serious mishap. To have rolled to the Canyon River would have damaged us greatly. As it is we cannot recover the track without that descent. So we twist our car upright (we are fastened in our seats), square it to the hill and down we go, losing our breath as we plump splashing into the water. Our bonny wheels take paddle stroke and carry us, laughing over, and up the opposite bank to the track there, in its sinuous course. “We laughed too quick,” says father. “That friend at whom we laughed dropped that fork on the rail. I see him behind that boulder.” We leave the narrow-gauge track at its terminus without stopping, and have no other special accident in this vicinity.