THE STORY OF A RAM 71 



in whose shade lurk many a noble stag, clustering 

 thick on either bank. Faint and blue, too, were 

 the hills beyond Lillooet the Fair Maiden, or, as 

 some call it, The Valley of Flowers for the snow 

 had not touched their slopes as yet. Then from 

 a snow hummock we took a look to see if the sheep 

 were still there, and, reassured, dipped out of sight 

 again, and so on, till we were but half a mile from 

 our goal. After that the difficult part of the stalk 

 began, but it was the part I loved, for I was in 

 my own country once more, with no insinuating 

 branches and down timber to perplex my eyes and 

 wear my temper and my clothes. It was hard work 

 for all that, dragging one tired leg after the other, 

 the snow on my knickerbockers turned to ice. 



In behind a dip we slithered, panting and steam- 

 ing, but still happy; for, though in front it seemed 

 a flat expanse, I knew of the hollow that held the 

 sheep, and that if we reached that other rock but 

 fifty yards ahead, I should at least get a shot. So 

 on we crawled with angular care, and finally reached 

 our rock. Then Henry quietly and slowly raised 

 his head and as gently lowered it. To my look of 

 interrogation he replied by a nod. Giving him the 

 rifle I repeated his performance, and met the as- 

 tonished gaze of a ewe but a short twenty yards 

 distant. I was so surprised that at first I did 

 nothing beyond mechanically holding out my hand 

 for the rifle. Behind me I heard Henry hissing 

 blasphemous maledictions and advice. 



