n6 ECHOES OF SPORT 



winter is on the hills ; a powdering of snow 

 that crowns them with a diadem above their 

 sapphire skirts. Stern too they look ; their 

 summer smiles are put away, they know that 

 winter is at hand, and no playtime is that 

 with his rough, boisterous breath and swirling 

 snow-wreaths . Yet surely they must love him 

 too, friend that he is with his gift of sleep, his 

 mantle of dark wherein all things rest, to live 

 again at the touch of his child the spring. 



So I sat, nibbling at my fancies and mem- 

 ories like a coney in the rocks, when suddenly 

 my eye was caught by something white close 

 by that seemed to disappear in a narrow cleft 

 of a split rock. " Maybe it wass a hare,' 1 

 said Cameron. The fissure was narrow 

 enough for a rat to have squeezed into, but 

 Cameron's stick pushed into something soft, 

 and as he peered down, sure enough there was 

 a white, furry ball huddling about two feet 

 down into its tiny cave. Poor brute, how 

 frightened it must have been. I was glad 

 there was no means of getting it out, so we left 

 it in peace, and I wondered how long poor 



