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fifty yards below him. His two first and finest bulls were obtained by hard running and good shooting; the herds were on the move at the time, and only his speed of foot and soundness of wind enabled him to get near enough for a shot. One herd started before he got close, and he killed the master bull by a shot right through the heart, as it trotted past, a hundred and fifty yards distant.

As for me, during the next ten days I killed nothing save one cow for meat, and this though I hunted hard every day from morning till night, no matter what the weather. It was stormy, with hail and snow almost every day; and after working hard from dawn until nightfall, laboriously climbing the slippery mountain-sides, walking through the wet woods, and struggling across the bare plateaus and cliff-shoulders, while the violent blasts of wind drove the frozen rain in our faces, we would come in after dusk wet through and chilled to the marrow. Even when it rained in the valleys it snowed on the mountain-tops, and there was no use trying to keep our feet dry. I got three shots at bull elk, two being very hurried snap-shots at animals running in thick timber, the other a runningshot in the open, at over two hundred yards; and I missed all three. On most days I saw no bull worth shooting; the two or three I did see or hear we failed to stalk, the light, shifty wind baffling us, or else an outlying cow which we had not seen giving the alarm. There were many blue, and a few ruffed, grouse in the woods, and I occasionally shot off the heads of a couple on my way homeward in the evening. In racing after one elk, I leaped across a gully and so bruised and twisted my heel on a rock that, for the remainder of my stay in the mountains, I had to walk on the fore part of that foot. This did not interfere much with my walking, however, except in going down-hill.

Our ill success was in part due to sheer bad luck; but the chief element therein was the presence of a great hunting-party of Shoshone Indians. Split into bands of eight or ten each, they scoured the whole country on their tough, sure-footed ponies. They always hunted on horseback, and followed the elk at full speed wherever they went. Their method of hunting was to organize great drives, the riders strung in lines far apart; they signaled to one another by means of willow whistles, with which they also imitated the calling of the bull elk, thus tolling the animals to them, or making them betray their whereabouts. As they slew whatever they could, but by preference cows and calves, and as they were very persevering, but also very excitable and generally poor shots, so that they wasted much powder, they not only wrought havoc among the elk, but also scared the survivors out of all the country over which they hunted.

Day in and day out we plodded on. In a hunting-trip the days of long monotony in getting to the ground, and the days of unrequited toil after it has been reached, always far outnumber the red-letter days of success. But it is just these times of failure that really test the hunter. In the long run, common sense and dogged perseverance avail him more than any other qualities. The man who does not give up, but hunts steadily and resolutely through the spells of bad luck until the luck turns, is the man who wins success in the end.

After a week at Two-Ocean Pass,1 we gathered our pack-animals one frosty morning, and again set off across the mountains. A two-days' jaunt took us to the summit of Wolverine Pass, near Piñon Peak, beside a little mountain tarn; each morning we found its surface skimmed with black ice, for the nights were cold. After three or four days, we shifted camp to the mouth of Wolverine Creek, to get off the huntinggrounds of the Indians. We had used up our last elk-meat that morning, and when we were within a couple of hours' journey of our intended halting-place, Woody and I struck off on foot for a hunt. Just before sunset we came on three or four elk. A spike-bull stood for a moment behind some thick evergreens a hundred yards off; guessing at his shoulder, I fired, and he fell dead after running a few rods. I had broken the luck after ten days of ill success.

Next morning Woody and I, with the packer, rode to where this elk lay. We loaded the meat on a pack-horse, and let the packer take both the loaded animal and our own saddlehorses back to camp, while we made a hunt on foot. We went up the steep, forest-clad mountain-side, and before we had walked an hour heard two elk whistling ahead of us. The woods were open, and quite free from undergrowth, and we were able to advance noiselessly; there was no wind, for the weather was still, clear, and cold. Both of the elk were evidently very much excited, answering each other continually; they had probably been master bulls, but had become so exhausted that their rivals had driven them from the herds, forcing them to remain in seclusion until they regained their lost strength. As we crept stealthily forward, the calling grew louder and louder, until we could hear the grunting sounds with which the challenge of the nearest ended. He was in a large wallow, which was also a lick. When we were still sixty yards off, he heard us, and rushed out, but wheeled and stood a moment to gaze, puzzled by my buckskin suit. I fired into his throat, breaking his neck, and down he went in a heap. Rushing in and turning, I called to Woody, "He's a twelve-pointer, but

1 Since this was written Two-Ocean Pass has been included in the National Forest Reserve.

the horns are small." As I spoke I heard the roar of the challenge of the other bull not two hundred yards ahead, as if in defiant answer to my shot.

Running quietly forward, I speedily caught a glimpse of his body. He was behind some fir-trees about seventy yards off, and I could not see which way he was standing, and so fired into the patch of flank which was visible, aiming high, to break the back. My aim was true, and the huge beast crashed down-hill through the evergreens, pulling himself on his fore legs for fifteen or twenty rods, his hind quarters trailing. Racing forward, I broke his neck. His antlers were the finest I ever got. A couple of whisky-jacks appeared at the first crack of the rifle, with their customary astonishing familiarity and heedlessness of the hunter; they followed the wounded bull as he dragged his great carcass down the hill, and pounced with ghoulish bloodthirstiness on the clots of blood that were sprinkled over the green herbage.

These two bulls lay only a couple of hundred yards apart, on a broad game-trail, which was as well beaten as a good bridle-path. We began to skin out the heads; and as we were finishing we heard another bull challenging far up the mountain. He came nearer and nearer, and as soon as we had ended our work we grasped our rifles and trotted toward him along the game-trail. He was very noisy, uttering his loud, singing challenge every minute or two. The trail was so broad and firm that we walked in perfect silence. After going only five or six hundred yards, we got very close indeed, and stole forward on tiptoe, listening to the roaring music. The sound came from a steep, narrow ravine to one side of the trail, and I walked toward it with my rifle at the ready. A slight puff gave the elk my wind, and he dashed out of the ravine like a deer; but he was only thirty yards off, and my bullet went into his shoulder as he passed behind a clump of young spruce. I plunged into the ravine, scrambled out of it, and raced after him. In a minute I saw him standing with drooping head, and two more shots finished him. He also bore fine antlers. It was a great piece of luck to get three such fine bulls at the cost of half a day's light work; but we had fairly earned them, having worked hard for ten days, through rain, cold, hunger, and fatigue, to no purpose. That evening my home-coming to camp, with three elk-tongues and a brace of ruffed grouse hung at my belt, was most happy.

Next day it snowed, but we brought a packpony to where the three great bulls lay, and took their heads to camp; the flesh was far too strong to be worth taking, for it was just at the height of the rut.

This was the end of my hunt, and a day later Hofer and I, with two pack-ponies, made a rapid push for the Upper Geyser Basin. We traveled fast. The first day was gray and overcast, a cold wind blowing strong in our faces. Toward evening we came on a bull elk in a willow thicket; he was on his knees in a hollow, thrashing and beating the willows with his antlers. At dusk we halted and went into camp by some small pools on the summit of the pass north of Red Mountain. The elk were calling all around us. We pitched our cozy tent, dragged great stumps for the fire, cut evergreen boughs for our beds, watered the horses, tethered them to improvised picket-pins in a grassy glade, and then set about getting supper ready. The wind had gone down, and snow was falling thickly in large, soft flakes; we were evidently at the beginning of a heavy snow-storm. All night we slept soundly in our snug tent. When we arose at dawn there was a foot and a half of snow on the ground, and the flakes were falling as fast as ever. There is no more tedious work than striking camp in bad weather, and it was over two hours from the time we rose to the time we started. It is sheer misery to untangle picket-lines and to pack animals when the ropes are frozen, and by the time we had loaded the two shivering, wincing pack-ponies, and had bridled and saddled our own riding-animals, our hands and feet were numb and stiff with cold, though we were really hampered by our warm clothing. My horse was a wild, nervous roan, and as I swung carelessly into the saddle, he suddenly began to buck before I got my right leg over, and threw me off. My thumb was put out of joint. I pulled it in again, and speedily caught my horse in the dead timber. Then I treated him as what the cow-boys call a "mean horse," and mounted him carefully, so as not to let him either buck or go over backward. However, his preliminary success had inspirited him, and a dozen times that day he began to buck, usually choosing a down grade, where the snow was deep and there was much fallen timber.

All day long we pushed steadily through the cold, blinding snow-storm. Neither squirrels nor rabbits were abroad, and a few Clarke's crows, whisky-jacks, and chickadees were the only living things we saw. At nightfall, chilled through, we reached the Upper Geyser Basin. Here I met a party of railroad surveyors and engineers coming in from their summer's fieldwork. One of them lent me a saddle-horse and a pack-pony, and we went on together, breaking our way through the snow-choked roads to the Mammoth Hot Springs, while Hofer took my own horses back to Ferguson.

Theodore Roosevelt.

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HE site of the Transporta- lofty longitudinal central nave, which should tion Department lies next be open to its whole height to accommodate west of the Mines and Min- those exhibits requiring considerable vertical ing Building, and in neces- space (such as aërial devices and elevators); and sary and convenient prox- two modules and a half on each side for twoimity to the railroads. In storied aisles, where road vehicles, and all other this case the specific char- means of light transportation by land or water, acter of the exhibit must could be arranged and classified. Each aisle, as dictate even more absolutely the practical plan well as the nave, is furnished with double pitched of the structure which is to accommodate it. roofs and skylights, and the nave is carried high A very large and characteristic part of this ex- enough to permit the introduction of two ranges hibit must be locomotive engines, and other of clearstory windows, of which the lower are specimens of railroad rolling-stock. In laying circular. It was the purpose of the architects to out a system of installation for these, it was treat this double clearstory with decorative defound more convenient to arrange the rails at tail; but considerations of economy have deright angles to the length of the building, and prived us of much of this interesting interior to space them 16 feet on centers, in order to effect. Studies, however, have been made for the allow sufficient room for circulation between occupation of the triforium wall-space beneath them. Two pairs of rails, so spaced, to each these windows by a broad painted frieze, exbay gave a width of 32 feet, which thus be- tending quite around the nave, and setting forth came the constant module of dimension and poetically the history of transportation from the common divisor of the plan; indeed, this archaic to modern times. For reasons which will factor proved the basis of the whole architec- presently appear, it was consistent with their tural scheme. If it had been a few feet more scheme to finish these roofs at the ends with or less, we should have had a different building. hips, and not with gables. In fact, as is apparent in the analyses of all these designs, the unit of dimension must exercise an influence over architectural compositions analogous to that of the various terms of tempo, from largo or adagio to allegro, in their relation to music. The area at the disposal of the architects, Messrs. Adler & Sullivan of Chicago, permitted this divisor to enter thirty times into the length and eight times into the width of their building, which thus became 960 feet long by 256 feet wide, with a triangular area lying westward between the building and the park boundaries, whereon could be located all such annex buildings as might be required to accommodate the rougher rolling-stock, and such other exhibits as could not find place in the main building.

In studying the roofing and lighting of this space, it was found convenient to set aside three of these modules or divisors for the width of a

In considering, in outline, how these great buildings have assumed definite architectural shape, we have been anxious to show that they have grown from practical conditions by logical or reasonable processes, and are not the result of mere personal idiosyncrasies, imposing upon the work favorite formulas of design, which have no essential relations to these conditions. Nevertheless, these buildings, being, in their principles of growth, problems of art and not of mathematics or mere engineering, each has been capable of many widely differing artistic solutions, through equally rational processes, from that which it has actually received, just as the same idea would necessarily be expressed by half a dozen masters of literature in half a dozen different ways, or as the same theme would be treated by several musical composers in several harmonic ways, according to the personal equation or the accident of mood of the master

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in each case. The architect uses his conventional historic forms as the poet uses his conventional historic words; both forms and words have come down to us, modified and enriched by the generations of mankind through which they have passed, and for this reason there is often a deeper significance in them than is patent to the multitude. Architectural formulas, in their various developments through centuries of usage, have become symbols of the genius of nations; no architect can adapt them intelligently and successfully to his work unless his mind has been saturated with these inner meanings, and unless he has learned to respect the language which he uses. The harmonious combination which he may be able to make of these

forms, and his applications of them to his composition, may be simply correct, because free from errors of architectural grammar or rhetoric; or they may be brilliant, because they are also original without caprice; surprising without evidence of effort; poetic, because of his inner light. The degrees of success range from correctness to brilliancy, and the varieties are infinite.

Now the work of Adler & Sullivan in this Transportation Building is widely different from that which they would have produced had they been placed under those restrictions which, for the reasons stated, were voluntarily and properly assumed by the architects of the Court. The former were free to use any language of form fitted to express the purposes of their building, and they were under no other limitations than those furnished by minds educated and trained in art. In endeavoring to show, therefore, how their work took shape, we shall, in this as in other cases,- carefully avoiding the attitude of criticism, which would be premature and improper,-proceed not as if the methods of development were exact and positive in a scientific sense, and recognizing that there cannot be any single, final, and only possible solution to a problem of art. No true artist ever wrote Q. E. D. under his project.

The general plan and method of accommodation being accepted, we are now in position to see how they will affect the architectural expression of the interior. We imagine the architects reasoning as follows:

It is our purpose to confer upon an object of utility an expression of fitness and beautyto utter truth, not only with correctness, but with the grace of poetic diction. In the first place, therefore, let us inclose the structure which we have developed with a wall having merely functions of usefulness. In piercing this wall for the necessary windows, let us make one large opening to correspond with each of the 32-foot bays established by our module of dimension; but let us not make these openings so wide as to narrow the piers between them and thus to convert what we intend to be a wall into a colonnade or arcade. Let us preserve the idea of a wall-surface by keeping our piers wide, and by finishing our openings with arches so that the spandrel surfaces between may be added to the area of repose. But in making the window-openings high enough for the practical purpose of lighting the interior, we have left only a narrow and weak wall-surface over them. In order to remedy this defect, and to bring our wall to a height which will not be low when compared with that of our neighbors, we venture to build it 10 feet higher than is constructionally necessary, so that it shall reach a total height of 53 feet, thus forming a screen to mask the aisle-roofs behind. Now,

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