THE MOUNTAIN SHEEP: 

 HIS WAYS 



UPON a Sunday morning, the loth of July 

 1892, I awaked among my scanty yet entan- 

 gling Pullman blankets, and persuaded the broken- 

 springed window-shade of my lower berth to slide 

 upward sufficiently for a view of Livingston, 

 Montana. Outside I beheld with something 

 more than pleasure a fat and flourishing moun- 

 tain ram. He was tethered to a telegraph pole, 

 and he scanned with an indifference bred by 

 much familiarity our sleeping-car, which had 

 come from St. Paul, being dropped last night 

 from the coast-bound train, because it was this 

 morning to trundle its load of tourists up the 

 Yellowstone Park branch to Cinnabar. The 

 ram had been looking at Eastern tourists and 

 their cars long enough for the slow gaze of his 

 eye to express not a kindred but the same con- 

 tempt which smouldered in the stare of the 

 Indians at Custer station, of the cow punchers 



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