To a lover of scenery, the change from Britain’s green hills and mossy woods to the dull yellow browns of the ‘Rockies’ is dispiriting. For a few weeks in June, a greenish tint pervades the hillsides, and then, alas! how quickly do the yellows and browns triumph! I do not write this to discourage earnest fellows from going into ranching; but they must not expect—as many seem to do—that life out West is one of roses, and that with a small capital to begin with, they can hunt and fish and have a constantly jolly time, and in a very few years come home with a fortune. Life in summer is endurable; but how about winter? The best ranges are in the north-western country, and the winters are simply awful. It has always been a wonder to me how cattle survive at all, much less come out in good condition in spring. How about the nice gentlemanly fellow from home and home luxuries, enduring a winter with thermometer ranging from twenty to sixty degrees _below_ zero! (Two years ago, the spirit glasses stood in Southern Montana at sixty degrees below zero for over twenty hours at one time. Needless to say the mercury glasses were all frozen _solid_.) He rides forth on the range to look at his cattle, and comes in, probably, with nose, cheekbones, hands, and feet nipped, more or less severely. Next day, he does the same, with similar results, and then vows he won’t go again. He remains indoors for a few days, roasting beside a big stove, gets impatient at the deadly weariness of his life, and goes fishing through the ice—catches a few fish; results same as when riding. He then thinks he will try deer-tracking, or possibly a little amateur trapping. In either case he tramps all day through deep snow, varied by falling into a hidden spring-hole now and again, getting wet, and instantly his legs are incased in a solid mail of ice, which he must break, in order to walk. He comes home at night tired out, perhaps with game, more likely without; and vowing he has had enough of that sort of thing, falls back on cards and whisky, and so gets through the winter. Some fellows have a hazy sort of idea that by hiring out as cowboys, they eventually will be, by hook or crook, taken in as partners by the stock-owner. This is about the greatest error they can fall into. Nine stockmen out of ten would not give a new arrival his board for his services. He cannot ride—I mean, he cannot _sit_ on one of our quarter-tamed _bronchos_ much over three minutes; he knows nothing whatever about the semi-wild habits of Western cattle, or how to manage them. A _good_ cowboy requires special knowledge and special points in his character; and constant daily practice for years is needed to acquire the one and develop the others.