At Regina, eleven hundred miles from Vancouver, we are still two thousand feet above the sea. This is the capital of the Province of Assiniboia, situated in the centre of an almost boundless plain. Here are the headquarters of the Northwestern Mounted Police, a very necessary military organization of a thousand men, distributed over this region to look after the Indians, who are ever ready to commit depredations when they feel they can do so with impunity, and also to preserve good order generally among the several frontier communities. It was at Regina that Louis Riel, the principal promoter of the late rebellion against the Dominion government, was tried and hanged not long since. It is called here the “half-breed rebellion.” Over the far-reaching, trackless, arid prairies, as lonely as an Egyptian desert, the cloud effects towards the day’s close are noticeably very fine, while the twilight lingers to the very verge of night. At times we pass through a broad tract of land ten miles or more square, from which a whole forest has been swept by conflagration, probably started by an unfortunate spark from a passing locomotive, or, quite as likely, by the carelessness of some camping party of sportsmen. These large spaces, which would otherwise be intensely dreary, are already carpeted with a fresh green undergrowth, with which nature always hastens to obliterate the devastation caused by the ruthless flames. As our train stopped briefly at Regina a group of mounted Blackfeet Indians dashed across the prairie and drew up near the station. A wild, weird score of semi-savages, very picturesque in their garments of many colors and their decorations of quills, beads, and feathers, with a scalp hanging from the waist here and there among them. Their long, unkempt black hair flowed all about their necks and features, which were more or less besmeared with vermilion. Their leggings of deer-hide were fringed on the outer side, and their leather moccasins were lashed with deerskin thongs up the ankles. Some had stirrups, but most of them had none, their limbs hanging free and a blanket serving for a saddle. Their little wiry ponies were under complete control, and the riders were good horsemen. It seemed to be some gala occasion with these Blackfeet, but of what purport it was impossible to discover. They were evidently under a certain degree of discipline, for at a sharp, sudden command from one of their number they all dismounted together and stood with one arm over their horses’ necks like so many stone statues. At that moment a lady passenger in our car aimed her “kodak” at them, and, presto! they were photographed in the twinkling of an eye, which, considering their aversion to the process, was quite an achievement on the lady’s part. These Indians are now peaceable enough, and no one fears to go among them, but we are inclined to think, with “Buffalo Bill,” that they will make one more desperate fight, in both Canada and the States, before