The Mountain Sheep 173 



Sunday morning. When I presently stood on 

 the platform, only the wind was blowing down 

 from the sunny snow-fields, and that not bleakly, 

 while from high invisible directions came thinly 

 a pleasant tankling of cow-bells. 



Not two minutes had I been on the platform 

 when the ram did it again. Yes, it was merely 

 his charming temperament; and often since, 

 very often, when encompassed with ponderous 

 acquaintance, have I envied him his blithe and 

 relaxing privilege. I was now thankful to learn 

 that the branch train had still some considerable 

 time to wait for the train from Tacoma, before it 

 could take me from the ram's company; no such 

 good chance to watch a live healthy mountain 

 sheep on his own native heath was likely again 

 to be mine, and after breakfast I sought his 

 owner at once. 



" It's a fine dy," said the owner. 



" And a very fine ram," I assured him. 



" He's quite tyme," the owner went on. " You 

 can have him for five hundred." 



" You're a long way from London," was my 

 comment ; and he asked if I, too, were English. 

 But I was not, nor had I any wish to bear away 

 the ram, skipping and leaping into civilization. 



