The White Goat and his Country 



cannot remember the number of obstacles 

 always lying between ourselves and So- 

 and-So. 



At length we were once more in camp on a 

 stream named the Twispt. In the morning 

 — new stroke of misfortune — one of us was 

 threatened with illness, and returned to the 

 Forks. We three, the guide, the cook, and 

 myself, went on, finally leaving the narrow 

 valley, and climbing four hours up a mountain 

 at the rate of about a mile an hour. The 

 question was, had winter come in the park 

 above, for which we were heading? On top, 

 we skirted a bare ridge from which everything 

 fell precipitously away, and curving round 

 along a steep hollow of the hill, came to 

 an edge and saw the snow lying plentifully 

 among the pines through which we must go 

 down into the bottom of the park. But on 

 the other side, where the sun came, there was 

 little or none, and it was a most beautiful 

 place. At the head of it was a little frozen 

 lake fringed with tamarack, and a stream 

 flowed down from this through scattered 

 birches and pines, with good pasture for the 

 horses between. The park sank at its outlet 

 35 



