THE SMALL NEIGHBORS OF BIG GAME 295 



interested in the remarkable little creature which makes 

 its home in those rugged fields. I say " in " those fields, 

 because his life upon them is only a trifling incident. It 

 is the Little Chief " Hare/' Pika, or " Crying Hare," * 

 which is not a real hare at all. Its three or four species 

 and subspecies occupy a Family box all alone, and for 

 mammals it surely is in the top gallery. It looks like a 

 timid, little, one-third-grown gray rabbit, with white ear- 

 rims ; and it has neither speed nor activity. It lives solely 

 by its wits, in an atmosphere reeking of grizzly bears, 

 wolverines, martens, weasels, eagles and hawks. It ranges 

 from just below timberline up to the line of perpetual 

 snow. 



When you stalk silently into the head of a great rock- 

 walled basin, over coarse and jagged slide-rock, to the 

 spot where the first cupful of water starts down to form a 

 creek and take a name, you listen as well as look. As you 

 slowly pick your way along over the roughest of all rough 

 hunting-grounds, you hear a queer little sound, like the 

 " cheep " of a monster cricket. It comes from the depths 

 of the slide-rock somewhere, anywhere, and it says de- 

 liberately but plaintively, " Ghe-ee-ee-p! Chee-ee-ee-p! 

 Cheep! " It is a piercing, high-pitched squeak, like the 

 third D above middle C on your piano. If you wish to 

 see the owner of the insect-voice, sit down at once, remain 

 perfectly quiet, and watch sharply in the direction of the 

 sound. It is quite useless to try to locate the voice pre- 

 cisely until you see the owner of it. 



In a reasonably small fraction of an hour, you will 



* 0-cho-to'na prin'ctps. 



