The White Goat and his Country 



off the horses, so they might be able to walk 



homeward without falling in the snow, T 



thought it our best plan. We wanted to find 

 a bunch of goats now, nannies and kids, as well 

 as billies. It had been plain that these ridges 

 here contained very few, and those all hermits; 

 males who from age, or temperament, or dis- 

 appointment in love, had retired from society, 

 and were spending the remainder of their days 

 in a quiet isolation and whatever is the goat 

 equivalent for reading Horace. It was well 

 enough to have begun with these philoso- 

 phers, but I wanted new specimens. 



We were not too soon. A new storm had 

 set in by next morning, and the unshod horses 

 made their journey down the mountain, a most 

 odious descent for man and beast, in the sliding 

 snow. But down on the Twispt it was yet 

 only autumn, with no snow at all. This was 

 a Monday, the 7th of November, and we made 

 haste to the Forks, where I stopped a night 

 to read a large, accumulated mail, and going 

 on at once, overtook my outfit, which had 

 preceded me on the day before. 



Our new camp — and our last one — was 

 up the Methow, twenty-three miles above the 

 ^* 53 



