90 CASUALS IN THE CAUCASUS 



line, we debated our path of descent. Far below us 

 a little village gleamed white amid the green, like a 

 pure-plumaged gull resting on the ocean. In and out 

 the depths the winding lora River, a beautiful little 

 stream of rippling reaches and make-believe falls, 

 threaded its devious course. 



Our first essay at cutting downwards led to an un- 

 fathomable engulfment, from which we were only 

 saved by the sagacity of the leading horse. As the 

 great crevass gloomed before him he planted his fore- 

 feet firmly and snorted his distaste. 



Ascending or descending, the rider simply leaves the 

 conduct of the journey to his steed. Caucasian ponies, 

 trained to the use of their wits, are completely thrown 

 off if you take to supplying any so-called support at 

 the mouth. The resourceful creatures do not require 

 it, and may be trusted to get you to the bottom or 

 top with safety if allowed to engineer the trip entirely 

 for themselves. Never was there such sagacity. The 

 " rounders up " in the forested ranches of Vancouver 

 Island are not more acute. 



To see the Caucasian ponies feeling with their fore- 

 feet for a firm hold, to feel the telepathy of their de- 

 cisions, to place your life in the keeping of the dumb 

 worker, horse-chamois-klipspringer in one, and to 

 know how he cares for it when he gets the chance are, 

 as Blake would say, " portions of Eternity too great 

 for the eye of man." 



Harking back a little, we flung ourselves over a half- 

 closed track, down which the fuel storers of years were 

 wont to drag their log harvest. A slippery shute 



