Our camp was on the left in a thick grove of cottonwoods, and box-elders or ash-leaved maples, at the end of the point.

As the sun sank away bats flew about and an insect orchestra began a demoniacal concert that shrilled through the night and made us feel like slaughtering the myriads if we could.

The noises ceased with the day, or most of them, though some seemed to intensify with the light.

We helped Beaman get his dark box and other paraphernalia up to the summit of the ridge back of camp, which was easy so far as climbing was concerned, the rocks rising by a series of shelves or steps.

I made several pencil sketches there, which I have never seen since the close of the expedition.