She drew a long breath of the thin, clear mountain air! So this was Virginia's country! It was a big land! She understood now what Virginia had meant by talking about the bigness of everything. The plains, stretching on and on, gray-green with sagebrush, the gaunt mountain spurs, the far-away real mountains, blue and snow-furrowed, the great, clear sky over all! It must be wonderful at night with countless stars and a moon looking down upon the loneliness of everything. There was something about it all that, in some strange way, pulled out one's very soul--that made one want to be big in thought, tolerant, kind! The brakeman, perhaps alarmed at seeing his interesting passenger actually standing still, had joined her at that moment. Priscilla pointed to a speck in the sagebrush--the vanishing cow boy. "A real cow boy!" she shouted above the rumble of the wheels. "Humph!" grunted her companion. "Didn't you never see one before?" "Never!" cried Priscilla fervently. "It ain't no great sight!" returned the sophisticated brakeman. "Perhaps not to you," Priscilla shouted in his ear, "but it would be if you had dreamed of seeing one for ten months and three-quarters the way I have." "Humph!" grunted the brakeman again. "You must be a tenderfoot." "I am," cried Priscilla, "and I'm glad of it! You can only see bran-new things once. The second time you see them they aren't new any longer, and can't give you thrills like the first time." The brakeman grinned. "There's some yucca," he shouted, pointing to a tall, straight plant with white, bell-shaped flowers growing by the track. "What's that?" screamed the interested Priscilla. "Sometimes folks call it Indian soap-weed," explained the brakeman in her ear, "because if you break the leaves they'll lather in water. And some folks call it Spanish bayonet. It grows in barren places out here." "I'll put that in my Thought Book," Priscilla told him. "I guess it's lucky I have a new one with all these new things to write about. Why are all the trees out here those tall cottonwoods?" "They ain't all," answered the obliging brakeman, "but the cottonwoods don't take so much soil. They grow easy and quick, and make good wind-breaks, so folks plant 'em when they build a house near a creek like that one over there. Quaking-asps--they grow well, too." "Quaking-asps!" cried Priscilla. "Where are they? Please show me! I'd give worlds to see one! My roommate lives out here--I'm just on my way to visit her--and it's her favorite tree." "You don't have to give nothin'," shouted her companion dryly. "There's plenty of 'em right along this creek we're passing. They're them little trees with light green trunks and trembly leaves. They grow by creeks and in springy places mostly." Priscilla leaned over the railing and gazed. "Oh, aren't they happy? They're the jolliest trees I ever saw!" "I guess that is a good word for 'em," agreed the brakeman. "They sure do dance around."