Yea, yea; it is the same old story--“a fisherman’s luck! A fisherman’s luck!” Yet, nevertheless, I am ever hopeful and content to wait. God’s good will will be done, no doubt in his own good time. This is my consolation. “Nor cease I yet to wander where the Muses haunt--clear brook and shady rill.” Green bank and blue, unclouded sky. Quiet grove and breezy hill. Fresh flowers and the songs of birds. These all make musical and brighten still my dreams, and gladden likewise my long-expectant eye. But farewell, my dear tourist friend---farewell, perhaps forever! And when back again unto “orient realms” thou shalt soon have returned,-- “Just tell them that you saw me while out West, Just mention that I’m camping,--they will surely know the rest!” SUPPLEMENTARY _NEW GLAD VOICES_ To-day--to-day--the birds again are singing and rejoicing, Nature’s great heart, once more, with pleasure thrills; Mortals--mortals--we to our gladness should be voicing. Not brooding o’er life’s griefs and ills. Has not the world had enough of sorrow? Is not the world yet done with tears? Joy _to-day_--if thou wouldst joy to-morrow, Away with care--away with frets and fears. _MAY-DAY BESIDE THE PLATTE_ To-day--to-day! It is sweet May-day again beside the Platte. The cottonwoods are putting forth their green. The wild, red-roses and the white plum-blossoms scent the air. The lark is in the fields; the robin’s cheery voice is heard. The golden flecker and the oriole make music in the woods. The dove’s low cooing woos the murmur of the streams, and the merry blackbirds chant amid the wild, sweet meadow-grass, and starry-eyed asclepia blooms. The vast, green prairie spreads around. Its boundless lawns are sweet with flowers. The “bonny-bells” and “yellow eyes” have decked the sunny slopes with gold. The round, green hills are gay with dandelions and daisies. The sweet blue-flags, the “yuccas” and the “artemisias” brighten everywhere. Northward, amid his banks of bloom and graceful curves, the “silver river” glides. Westward, a dozen miles beyond, the stream, and, looming over all in grand relief, appears the old, shining Rocky Mountains, the snowy range towering amid the storm-clouds, and the purple foot-hills, like the Titan forms of old among the shattered fortresses of vanquished gods! Dreamer, you are in Colorado--you stand upon the banks of the Platte. The great, wild prairie stretches all around us. Its smooth, green lawns are bright with silver brooks and crystal lakes. Hundreds of wild fowl disport upon the water’s blue, unrippled bosom. Long strings of cattle come forth to drink--others graze in droves among the low, round hills near by. How beautiful! how bright! how grassy wild! how fair and sweet!