Our purveyor, Mr. Brackett, an old campaigner, knows just what to do to make us comfortable. He has a dry tent in one of the wagons, which, when the rain has ceased, is quickly set up. His cook soon has his coffee-pot bubbling, and with hot coffee and a roaring fire we are none the worse for the drenching. The storm has spent its fury, and is passing away, but the heavens are all aglow. Broad flashes sweep across the sky, flame up to the zenith, or quiver along the horizon. Bolt after bolt falls earthward, or flies from the north, south, east, and west,--from all points of the compass,--branching into beautiful forms, spreading out into threads and fibres of light, each tipped with golden balls or beads of brightest hue, seen a moment, then gone forever. Flash and flame, bolt and bar, bead, ball, and line, follow each other in quick succession, or all appear at once in indescribable beauty and fearful grandeur. We can only gaze in wonder and admiration, though all but blinded by the vivid flashes, and though each bolt may be a messenger of death,--though in the twinkling of an eye the spirit may be stricken from its present tabernacle and sent upon its returnless flight. The display, so magnificent and grand, has its only counterpart in the picture which imagination paints of Sinai or the final judgment. In an adjoining county the storm was attended by a whirlwind. Houses were demolished and several persons killed. It was terrifying to be in it, to hear the deafening thunder; but it was a sight worth seeing,--that glorious lighting up of the arch of heaven. It required half a day of bright sunshine to put things in trim after the tornado, and then on Saturday afternoon the party pushed on to Cold Spring and encamped on the bank of Sauk River for the Sabbath. [Illustration: CAMP JAY COOKE.] The camp was named "Jay Cooke," in honor of the energetic banker who is the financial agent of the Northern Pacific Railroad Company. Sweet, calm, and peaceful the hours. Religious services were held, conducted by Rev. Dr. Lord, who had a flour-barrel and a candle-box before him for a pulpit; a congregation of teamsters, with people from the little village near by, and the gentlemen composing our party, some of us seated on boxes, but most of us sitting upon the ground. Nor were we without a choir. Everybody sung Old Hundred; and though some of us could only sound one note, and that straight along from beginning to end, like the drone of a bagpipe, it went gloriously. Old Hundred never was sung with better spirit, though there was room for improvement of the understanding, especially in the base. The teamsters, after service, hunted turtle-eggs on the bank of the river, and one of them brought in a hatful, which were cooked for supper.