THE ROCKS FOR THE CONIES 177 



The sun was high when I found myself slip- 

 ping and sliding along the sharp slopes in sight 

 of the great rock-heap. It was ten o'clock. No 

 wind was moving, no sound or cry of any kind 

 about the slide, no sign of life anywhere. 



This must be the place, however. I had passed 

 it at some distance the night before ; and here were 

 footprints leading down the bare slope up which I 

 was scrambling. This was the slide, but who would 

 ever have paused here before this heap of broken 

 rock, expecting to see any living thing in it? 



The slide was of cracked and splintered chunks 

 that had broken off of the peak above and filled 

 a wash or gully on the side, just as bricks might 

 fall from a chimney and fill the length of a valley 

 on the roof. Stunted trees grew at the base of 

 the slide, and up the side some scraggly grass 

 and a few snow-line flowers, squat alpine sorts, 

 blooming bravely along the edges of the melting 

 snow-banks. 



This was new hunting for me. I crept round 

 the crumbling slope and down to the border of 

 the slide, where I stood trying to make myself 

 believe that animal life of any kind, larger than 

 some of the boreal mice, could climb to this 



