The White Goat and his Country 
picture which the white, slightly moving dots 
made, like mites on a cheese, inclined one to 
a large estimate of them, since they covered 
the whole side of a hill. The more we looked 
the more we found; besides the main army 
there were groups, caucuses, families sitting 
apart over some discourse too intimate for the 
general public; and beyond these single 
animals could be discerned, moving, gazing, 
browsing, lying down. 
“Megod and Begod,” said T (he oc- 
casionally imitated a brogue for no hereditary 
reason), “there’s a hundred thousand goats!” 
‘“‘Let’s count’em,” I suggested, and we took 
the glasses. There were thirty-five. 
We found we had climbed the wrong hill, 
and the day was too short to repair this error. 
Our next excursion, however, was successful. 
The hill where the goats were was not two 
miles above camp,—you could have seen the 
animals from camp but for the curve in the 
cafion,— yet we were four hours and a half 
climbing the ridge, in order to put ourselves 
above them. It was a hard climb, entirely 
through snow after the first. On top the 
snow came at times considerably above the 
55 
