THIRST-FAMISHED DOGS. 95 
where thirsty nature had not even dew to drink, 
and miles away from water. They dig small 
holes in the sand, at the mouth of which they sit 
on their haunches, like a begging-dog. On the 
least alarm, one gives a shrill sharp whistle, when 
all take headers into their burrows. In winter 
they hybernate, coming out about the middle of 
April. 
June 16.—We camped near a rough kind of 
farm, on a small stream called Cow creek. 
June 17.—Still the same sandy treeless district. 
To-day the sun really scalds us. A fresh breeze 
blows in our faces, but only adds to the general 
discomfort—by filling every pocket with fine dust, 
inflaming the eyelids, and making one’s mouth 
feel as if a piece of grinding-stone had been 
chewed for luncheon. My poor dogs suffer 
dreadfully; fourteen miles from water to water, 
over hot sand, completely exhausts them. They 
make known their griefs by whining piteously, 
Ig@ying down, and imploring me to give them 
water. I know what my poor dumb friends 
mean as well as if they proclaimed their wants 
in words, and cheer them on by giving them a 
little water from my canteen, converting my soft 
felt hat into a drinking-basin. 
As we ride on, I notice what I at first imagined 
