LETTER V. 63 



LETTER V. 



Alison's Ranche. 

 DEAR PAT, 



Travelling with a pack-train is very 

 monotonous work, especially when your time is 

 limited, and a land full of great game, and there- 

 fore great possibilities of happiness, is before you. 

 It seems so ridiculous that the pack-animals 

 should not be able to do more than three miles 

 an hour ; so exasperating to see your men sitting 

 half asleep in their saddles ; to see some obstinate 

 brute of a pony calmly stopping the train in a 

 narrow place to nibble leisurely at the sparse 

 herbage, conscious of your inability to get at him. 

 But there are worse things than these. It is 

 afternoon, and you have ridden on very slowly, 

 determined to be quiet and endure the inevitable, 

 and enjoy the scenery. The year has as many 

 ways of dying as men have. Here the year's 

 death is a red one. Caught by the first chill of 

 winter in the full foliage of summer, the leaves, 



