118 SUMMER 



of the pile he traveled, nervously, anxiously looking A y 

 for something for some one, I truly think; and / 

 my heart smote me when I thought it might be for [ \ 

 the dead mate whose little bare foot-pads had left 

 the bloody print upon the rock. 



Up and down, in and out, he ran, calling, calling, 

 calling, but getting no answer back. He was the 

 only one that showed himself, the only live one I have 

 ever seen, but this one I followed, as he went search- ^ 

 ing and crying over the steep rock-slide, with my eve BL 

 and with the field-glasses, until long past noon with 



ia whole camp down the canon looking for me ! 

 But they must know where to look. Let them I 

 climb out of the canon, back to the top of the world L/ ,\ 

 to the cony slide, if they could not wait for me. 



Higher up than the mountain sheep or the goat A , 

 | can live, where only the burrowing pocket gopher M 

 I and rare field mice are ever found, dwells the cony. 

 1 This particular slide was on one of the minor peaks, 

 loftier ones towered all about, nor do I know 

 just how high it was, but the cony dwells above the 

 ^ tree-line, up in the Arctic-Alpine Zone, in a world of I ; 

 perpetual snow, from ten to fourteen thousand feet 1 

 . above the sea. 



By perpetual snow I mean that the snow-banks I, 

 never melt in the shadowed ravines and on the bare' 

 north slopes. Here, where I was watching, the rock- 

 slide lay open to the sun, the scanty grass was green j 

 beyond the gully, and the squat alpine flowers were f 



; 



^ 



