Returning a little while ago, after many weeks of civilized life in a Colorado town, I found the old cabin deserted; for those who had been my companions there had gone far out on the plains to look after our wandering cattle. In the late afternoon, when the peak’s shadow fell across the valley, while I was busy making ready the simple supper, Gip stood in the doorway on guard, and I heard him give a long, low growl of suspicion. Looking out, I saw two pretty antelopes standing before the door, not a stone’s throw away, peering about in a timid, curious way to see what change had come over the little house which before had been so quiet. It is not common to see them so very near, and they were so pretty and graceful that I could only stand and admire them for a moment, forgetting my need of fresh meat. Their little hook-shaped horns and dainty hoofs are as black as polished jet; their eyes are very large and soft and dark; their bodies are a bright tawny color, but the throat and breast and limbs are snowy white. There are few animals in the world that are more elegant both in shape and in their movements than the prong-horned antelope. They came tripping down the slope with all the airs and graces of two little dandies; now trotting easily forward; now clearing a fallen tree with a beautiful flying leap; now stopping a moment to gaze and sniff about for possible danger. It was quite flattering to a lonely hermit to receive a visit from neighbors as handsome and stylish as these. But, though a friendly visit would be very pleasant, a full larder would be still pleasanter. Fortunately for my shy visitors, all the arms and ammunition had been stowed away while the house was closed, and could not be procured before the wary creatures had trotted on out of easy rifle range. [Illustration: COYOTES, OR PRAIRIE WOLVES.] Once in two weeks comes the principal event of my backwoods life,—a horseback ride of about forty miles to carry letters to the nearest ranch, and to get those that have collected there. After riding a few miles along the valley and through a pass, I come out upon the open rolling country that stretches away for hundreds of miles without any covering of trees or bushes except along the streams; for this western prairie land is so dry that only grass and cactus and low herbs can grow upon it. The rolling land is green, and spangled with flowers through May and June; but after mid-summer it becomes as dry as a desert, and in that way kind Providence changes the standing grass into hay which will feed the thousands of cattle and horses and wild creatures through the winter. [Illustration: PRAIRIE DOGS.]