The Council Bluffs nonpareil. [volume] (Council Bluffs [Iowa]) 1857-1867, 1857-09-26

Unroll the map Of the world, and look
upon the great northern continent Of Ameri-
ca. Away to the wild west, let your eyes
wander towards the setting sun. Rest them
where golden rivers rise among peaks that
carry the ctefnal snow. You are looking
upon land whose features are furrowed BY
human hands, still bearing the marks Of the
Almighty mould, rs on the morning of crea-
ton; region where every object wears the
impress Of Gods image, and where his spirit
lives in the silent grandeur of its mountains
and speaks in the roar of its rivers. Let
the eye of your mind follow me through
scenes Of wild beauty, of savage sublimity
and OF the unbroken romance OF nature.
Standing on an opera plain, turn my face
toward north, south, east vest, and on all
sides behold the blue circle Oh the heavens
girdling around. Neither rcck s.. tree breaks
the ring Of the horizon. Whst covers the
broad expanse between? MOod9 Water!
Grass? No: flowers rs far rs the eye can
range, ,only flowers. Yonder is golden yellow,
where the Helianthus turns her dial-like
face to the sun; yonder is scarlet where the
malva erects it's red banner. Here is apar-
terre Of the purple .monarda, there Euphor-
bia sheds its silver leaf. Yonder the orange
predominates in the snowy flowers of the
Asclepias; and beyond, the eye roams over
the pink blossoms of the cleome.
The breeze stirs them; millions of corollas
are waving their gaudy standards; and the
tall stalks of the Helianthus bend and rise
in long undulations like billows on agolden
sea. They are at rest again-the air is
filed with odours; myriads Of insects flap
their gay wings; the sea-birds skirt around,
glancing like stray sunbeams sunbeams; or
on poised wings drink from the nsctared
cups; and the wild bee with laden limbs, his
clings among the honeyed pistils, or leaves
for his distant hive with the song of joy
Who planted these flowers? Who has
woven their pictured embroidery Nature.
The hunter calls it ssd ueed prdiTie."L 1t is
mis-named. 1t is the flower garden Of God
The scene is changed. am in plain as
before, with an unbroken horizon circling
around me. There is not a flower in sight;
nothing but one vast expanse OF living YER
dure. From north to south, from east to
west, stretches the Prairie meadow, green
as an emerald, and smooth as the surface Of
o sleeping lake. The wind is upon its boz
som, sweeping the sinken blades; they move
and the verdure is dappled into lighter and
darker shades, as the shadows, of summer
clouds fitting across the sun. The eye wan
ders without hinderancs; perhaps it encoun-
ters the dark hirsute forms of the buffalo, or
traces the tiny outlines of the antelope;
perchance it follows the far-wild gallop OF
the snow-white stecd. This is 'the grass
prairie," the boundless pastures Of the
bison. ...s..ir 4l.7 .-ea. s--gz..s r- .-.
Again the scene changes. The earth is
no longer level, but treeless and verdant as
ever, and is covered with soft turf of bril-
liant greenness. Its surface exhibits a sue
cession of parallel undulations, here and
there swelling into smooth round hills, re-
minding one of the ocean after some great
storm, when crisped foam has died upon the
waves, and the big swell comes bowling in.
They look as though they had once been
waves, which, by ar Omnipotent mandate,
had been transformed to earth, and sudden
ly stood still. Such is ssthe rolling prairie"
Once more the scene is changed. There
are green swards and bright flowers; but
the view is broken by groves and clumps of
copsewood. The frondase is varied; its
tints are vivid, and its outlines are ssft and
graceful. New landscapes, views, park-like
and picturesque, unfold themselves contin-
ually. Gangs of Buffalo, herds of ante
lope, droyes of wild horses mottle the far
vista; turkeys run into the copes; and phea-
SAINTS whirr up from the path. Where are
the owners Of these lands, these focks, and
fowls? One looks forward expecting to
see the houses, the palaces, the turrets of
tall mansions which should be embowered
in these lordly parks. But no; for hundreds
of miles around no chimney sends forth its
smoke, no window CLEANS in the sun, no
hospitable gate expands in welcome. These
are the mottes, the islands in the prairie sea.
Captain Mayne Reid.