CHAPTER VII 



GLENORA PEAK 



ON the trail to the steamboat-landing at the foot 

 of Dease Lake, I met a Douglas squirrel, nearly 

 as red and rusty in color as his Eastern relative the 

 chickaree. Except in color he differs but little from 

 the California Douglas squirrel. In voice, language, 

 gestures, temperament, he is the same fiery, indomi- 

 table little king of the woods. Another darker and 

 probably younger specimen met near the Caribou 

 House, barked, chirruped, and showed off in fine style 

 on a tree within a few feet of us. 



"What does the little rascal mean?" said my com- 

 panion, a man I had fallen in with on the trail. "What 

 is he making such a fuss about? I cannot frighten 

 him." 



"Never mind," I replied; "just wait until I whistle 

 'Old Hundred' and you will see him fly in disgust." 

 And so he did, just as his California brethren do. 

 Strange that no squirrel or spermophile I yet have 

 found ever seemed to have anything like enough of 

 Scotch religion to enjoy this grand old tune. 



The taverns along the Cassiar gold trail were the 

 worst I had ever seen, rough shacks with dirt floors, 

 dirt roofs, and rough meals. The meals are all alike 

 a potato, a slice of something like bacon, some 

 gray stuff called bread, and a cup of muddy, semi- 

 liquid coffee like that which the California miners call 



[87! 



