"Wiii Bife on t^i (]PiocUie 



One cold day we were returning from a four 

 days' excursion when, a little above timber-line, 

 I stopped to take some photographs. To do this 

 it was necessary for me to take off my sheepskin 

 mittens, which I placed in my coat-pocket, but 

 not securely, as it proved. From time to time, 

 as I climbed to the summit of the Continental 

 Divide, I stopped to take photographs, but on the 

 summit the cold pierced my silk gloves and I felt 

 for my mittens, to find that one of them was lost. 

 I stooped, put an arm around Scotch, and told 

 him I had lost a mitten, and that I wanted him to 

 go down for it to save me the trouble. " It won't 

 take you very long, but it will be a hard trip for 

 me. Go and fetch it to me." Instead of starting 

 off hurriedly, willingly, as he had invariably done 

 before in obedience to my commands, he stood 

 still. His alert, eager ears drooped, but no other 

 move did he make. I repeated the command in 

 my most kindly tones. At this, instead of start- 

 ing down the mountain for the mitten, he slunk 

 slowly away toward home. It was clear that he 

 did not want to climb down the steep icy slope 

 of a mile to timber-line, more than a thousand feet 



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