A man might try to describe the Rockies as he sees them from the railway; but he could not succeed. Let me content myself with an ungrateful reflection. The through traveller in that astounding region is sated with scenery—bored with beauty. A hundred grand mountains, entrancing valleys, noble rivers, bewitching glades, and glorious waterfalls—that quantity would leave you still exclaiming, still in an extremity of enthusiasm. But when you have experienced a sunny day and starry night of peerless panorama, and find there is yet more to come, a heaviness comes over your senses. Because the eye has been debauched, the numbed brain can no longer receive definite impressions. In a feeble revolt, and hungry for contrast, you long for a sight of something ugly, like a row of London suburban villas. Among the mountains there are halting-places of luxury, loveliness, and slippered ease. One of these is Banff, where you may swim in an open-air bath of sulphur water, which flows soft and warm from fiery entrails of the earth. On certain stretches of the line, trains pause beside pretty buildings, where fountains play in gardens ablaze with blossoms, and where in dainty observation-towers telescopes give you intimacy with the stretches of eternal snow high overhead. [Illustration: BIG TREES IN VANCOUVER, B.C.] Constantly in the hurrying waters of fairy rivers one sees the dismembered trunks of trees—some jolting onwards to be butchered into planks, the respited majority stranded on rocky islands or sandy shores. The trees of Canada are apt to excite one’s sympathy. You pass acre upon acre of mountain side that has been swept by prairie fires. They are a pathetic sight—those black, leafless forests of carbon. Some of the abbreviated trunks remain erect, some lean at perilous angles, some are prostrate. The ground is strewn with ashes and sorrow. In those regions of blackness and death, I saw no moving thing, save only, on occasion, a yellow flying grasshopper—a creature that flutters forward slowly, makes a grating noise. Conspicuous among plants that push their way through the desolate ashes is the great willow herb, commonly called the “fire rod.” Settlers tell you it appears only on land that has been swept by fire; but there is another justification for the very appropriate name. The spike of ruddy blossoms suggests flame, while the clouds of feathery seed resemble smoke.