LIMESTONE HOODOOS IN YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK.—If one should come suddenly upon these Hoodoos, or Ghost Rocks, alone on a moonlight night, he would instantly recognize the appropriateness of the title which has been bestowed upon them. It was winter when our photographers were there, and they had the advantages of a winding sheet of snow reflected in a bright winter sun to heighten the effects, and were thus enabled to secure a picture which is in every sense in perfect keeping with the gruesome surroundings. ] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: NATURAL CASTLE, SLUICE-BOX CAÑON.] Leaving the Mammoth Hot Springs terraces, whose incomparable beauties must ever remain as a delightful remembrance, we traveled southward by the Hoodoos, and entered the Golden Gate, where a part of the road is built over a cañon and another part is carved out of the cliffs, along which there is a charm following every footstep. On the one side rise precipitous walls, while on the other is a gorge of almost infinite depth, through which plunges Gardiner River, broken and foaming with cascade and waterfall. Beyond the gates there is a brief level, then down again among fresh curiosities the route leads by the Devil’s Paint- Pots, Crystal Spring, pretty Beaver Lake, and along a mountain base covered with blasted pines. Then another ascent, until the altitude is so great that we found snow in considerable patches as late as July 1st. But besides the bubbling springs and sputtering sulphur vats, whose locations were marked here and there in the distance by their streams of vapor, our interest was chained by the obsidian cliffs on our left, a black mountain of mineral glass that sparkled with unnatural lustre because of the dusky background, while strewed about were broken bits that made the spot resemble the remains of a glass factory. At every few paces we startled a woodchuck which, satisfying his curiosity with a glance, quickly disappeared among the stones. Deer were occasionally seen scampering through the dead pine forest, and as we reached Beaver Lake two solemn blue cranes crossed our road and tried to hide their brood in a patch of tall grass. The hoarse “konks” of the cock, the thin “peeps” of the young, and the peculiar motions of the hen in her great agitation, were extremely amusing.