90 



Rod, Gun, and Palette in the High Rockies 



respectively. In their 

 speech, save for a few eUsions 

 and neutrahzed negatives, 

 occurs less of slang and 

 fewer perversions than are 

 noticeable among many pre- 

 sumably cultured city dwell- 

 ers. Of the peculiar slang 

 of their calling, the magazine- 

 bred range idiom and phras- 

 ing, there is none. In fact 

 their language is almost 

 classic in its directness and 

 simplicity, and except to a 

 grammatical pragmatist, as 

 pure as it well can be. 



To the artist, playing 

 solitaire, comes William: 

 "Oh, Jim, when is a wolf 

 not a — here, wait a minute." Business of cogitation by William 

 and from the artist — 



"Now, now, William, easy; take your time; get that straight, 

 now." 



"Oh, ah, I have it. When is a wolf a fox?" 

 The artist reflects deeply: "I give it up. When is a wolf a 

 fox, Mr. Bones?" 



"When he won't be trapped," responds William. 

 The house grins, and William with the successful joke- 

 makers' just pride, elucidates: "I was suggesting to Fred just 

 now that a wolf might be trapped and Fred said, 'You can't do 

 it. He is too foxy,' and it came to me just like that." Of such 

 trifles are laughter and diversion in camp made. 



With a rainy and threatening night outside, a blazing fire, 

 and two card games within, this day ends. 



'Earl" 



Saturday the third. 



A fresh snow and the camp astir at daybreak in expectation 

 of easy tracking at their elk hunting. Counter and Art departed 



