i84 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



time, whose very holding on to life among the 

 rocks speaks well for the protection they offer, 

 scanty as may be the picking about their barren 

 edges. 



All the while the tremulous call kept coming 

 from the slide. It was not the cry of several voices, 

 not a colony whistling, as at first I thought, for, 

 however gregarious they may be in a more favor- 

 able environment, here I am sure there were very 

 few pairs, if not, indeed, a single pair only. There 

 was but one small haycock curing in the stones, 

 and not enough uncut grass in the neighborhood 

 to feed more than a pair of conies for a winter, or 

 so it seemed to me. 



As I watched the slide, I finally made out the 

 little whistler, and, with eyes sharpened to their 

 work, was now able to follow him from rock to 

 rock as he moved restlessly about. He called 

 constantly, and as constantly stopped to listen. 

 Plainly it was an answer that he expected. He 

 was calling for some one, and the echo of his own 

 voice disturbed him. 



Now he would stop short on a slab and whistle, 

 would lift his head to listen, and, hearing nothing, 

 would dive into some long passage under the 



