It warms the blood of one sitting upon the carpeted floor in his well-furnished parlor to send his imagination back to those scenes.
Men of little book culture, and with but slight acquaintance with the elegancies of polished life, have often a high appreciation of the beauties and the sublimities of nature.

Think of such a man as Kit Carson, with his native delicacy of mind; a delicacy which never allowed him to use a profane word, to indulge in intoxicating drinks, to be guilty of an impure action; a man who enjoyed, above all things else, the communings of his own spirit with the silence, the solitude, the grandeur, with which God has invested the illimitable wilderness; think of such a man in the midst of such scenes as we are now describing.
It is the hour of midnight.

His camp is in one of the wildest ravines of the Rocky mountains.

A dense and gloomy forest covers the hillsides.

A mountain torrent, with its voice of many waters, flows on its way but a few yards beyond the open front of his camp.