i 4 6 A SPORTSMAN'S EDEN. 



good-bye to old S., he shook his hoary head, and 

 expressed a conviction that I should certainly get 

 no farther than the fourteen-mile house. That 

 was the last glimpse I had of the old man, in his 

 shirt-sleeves, slowly arranging a diamond hitch on 

 one of the pack-animals, and, smoking the eternal 

 meerschaum, dignified leisurely, and (as usual) 

 airily clad, although the snow was on the ground, 

 and the snows of time upon his head. Though 

 no one will ever succeed in making him hurry, I 

 very much doubt if anyone will ever find a better, 

 more considerate, or kindlier old man to ' boss 

 an outfit to those hunting-grounds.' Of course I 

 rode at my pony's best pace along the lonely 

 road, over which a threatening winter sky was 

 hanging, while all the beauty of crimson foliage 

 and sunlight had vanished and made room for 

 Nature's most wintry frown. Those Hope 

 Mountains are just such as should grow a fine 

 crop of supernatural horrors, and the Indian 

 legends show that their looks do not belie them. 

 In another letter I will gather together what 

 creepy stories I know, and introduce you to the 

 beings who people the shadowland of this chaotic 

 region. 



On the Similkameen side of the summit we 

 had met large breeds of cattle, untended by men, 

 led only by their instinct, wandering home to the 



