Like every earthly pleasure, leaves behind Dark shadows, creeping on to darker night.

Now here, new scenes on the then new bridge, and we were the new people. Ah ! surely here was an original poem, something of a descriptive nature that people would like, and the like of which I felt had never before been written.

And for over twenty years I lived in the thought that I was the only "poet" who had dedicated Scottsbluff in "immortal rhyme."

A few years ago, I was "looking up the trail" of an interesting event in this country, and I found the name of "Cooke." Who was Cooke ? Into the index of the National Library I went and found that St. George P. Cooke had written a book of the west, and I went after it. Now here is a story.

On June 9th. 1845, he met Rufus Sage, with a fleet of boats descending the Platte river from Fort Laramie, and the meeting was a little below Court House Rock. Tremendous rains had deluged the party at Chimney Rock. The hills were like the palisades of the Hudson, with here and there a pilaster of silvery white. Ascending the hills to the east the present site of Gering, he saw Scottsbluff, "lifting her awful form, above the clouds, and midway leaves the storm," and some one in the party shouted : "The Gibraltar of Nebraska."

A heavy storm was approaching from the west, and the party went into camp on the summit of the hill. "A thousand Sioux were in the vast amphitheatre just east of Scottsbluff." They were breaking camp in great excitement, having determined to cross the river before the storm came upon them. The braves were galloping about, the dogs and children were scurrying to and fro, and the women with hurried system were packing their belongings on the poles dragged by ponies ; and away they went, crossing the river with great shouting and splashing.