THE "CONY" 121 



hoping his mate was not dead, and wondering why he 

 stayed here in the barren peak, and how he must fare 

 in the black, bitter winter, I said over to myself the 

 lines of Kipling for an answer, 



" And God who clears the grounding berg 

 And steers the grinding floe, 

 He hears the cry of the little kit-fox 

 And the lemming on the snow." 



