Before night set in the thermometer had fallen from 78° in the shade, as it stood in the morning, to 34°, and during the night we had the deluge which I have already mentioned. To-morrow we start on our homeward journey. * * * * * I told you in my first letter that it was my intention to spend my holiday in this region, and here I am sitting in our little log cabin, overlooking a vast expanse of prairie valley, nearly six thousand miles away from my native land. So much of one's time is taken up in the railway trains that little is left for doing anything out of them. I told you that the three special horrors I expected to have to encounter would be mosquitoes, Indians, and bears! I saw one or two mosquitoes in New York, and I _felt_ them in Chicago, but only slightly; the season is over for these pests, but the present unusual weather stirs up a few now and then. As for Indians, I have only seen a few wigwams and one or two horsemen, perfectly peaceable and friendly now, though a few years ago this Gallatin Valley was the scene of many a bloody engagement between them and the settlers, and old-timers have long tales to tell of many terrible affrays. Nor have I yet met with a grizzly, though there are plenty of these fellows, as well as "silver tips" and black bears, up in the mountains. Last week a big black bear came down through this ranche and found his way to a slaughter-house in the neighbourhood of Bozeman, where he was discovered amusing himself by tearing about the offal. Two butchers in town armed themselves with a couple of rusty old rifles, and starting off on a moonlight night, kept watch for Master Bruin's appearance. Eventually they spied him on the top of the roof of the slaughter-house (a by no means easy roof to get on). They put two balls into him, and he rolled over dead. His skin was being exhibited in Bozeman as we passed through. While I am on the subject of bears, I may as well tell you another tale just as an eyewitness told it to me.