The air was deliciously clear and the sky
wonderfully blue above the mountains, and the moon, a few days past
its last quarter, was visible in the southwest, its pale crescent face
slightly blued by the atmosphere, as it always appears when seen in
daylight.
"Slow westering, a phantom sail--
The lonely soul of yesterday."
Behind us, somewhat north of east, lay the Syx works, with their black
smoke rising almost vertically in the still air. Suddenly, as we
stumbled along on the rough surface, something whizzed past my face
and fell on the rock at my feet. I looked at the strange missile, that
had come like a meteor out of open space, with astonishment.
It was a bird, a beautiful specimen of the scarlet tanagers, which I
remembered the early explorers had found inhabiting the Teton canyons,
their brilliant plumage borrowing splendor from contrast with the
gloomy surroundings. It lay motionless, its outstretched wings having
a curious shrivelled aspect, while the flaming color of the breast was
half obliterated with smutty patches. Stooping to pick it up, I
noticed a slight bronzing, which instantly recalled to my mind the
peculiar appearance of the victims of the attack on the mine.
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