AND OTHER BIRDS 115 



little stream of hematite. Scraps of information 

 as to routes and destination were pencilled 

 prominently ; and everywhere were scribbled the 

 signatures and initials of tourists, who would not 

 willingly let their great names die. 



A frying pan, a kerosene tin, a couple of pots, 

 were our culinary equipment, and our washing 

 up was done in a large, chipped enamelled dish. 

 The roof of our living whare was of iron, and at 

 night it was delightful to hear the wild tunes 

 played by the blasts of hail on the stretched 

 metal, the premonitory hint, just a prick or two, 

 the tap of the earliest stones, the pattering that 

 thickened and quickened into a roar, the distinct 

 timbre of larger and more sparsely shaken 

 globules, and the dying fall as the blizzard passed 

 away. I think people at Home miss much when 

 they lose the noise of the storm on the roof, and 

 the ebb and flow of its pour. 



Light was admitted by a small window most 

 of whose panes were intact. There were double 

 tiers of wooden bunks, the upper so close to the 

 lower ones that care had to be taken to avoid 

 abrasions; and a man in a nightmare, awaking 

 and stretching his arms, might easily imagine 

 himself struggling in his coffin. Our little table 

 hirpling on its feet and limping at each move- 

 ment on the uneven floor, was deeply stained 

 with every imaginable mark of sober revelry. 

 The 'chairs,' were a stool, barely long enough 

 to seat two men, and offering, the perpetual 

 inducement of a practical joke that would 

 precipitate one of them on the floor by the sud- 

 den rise of the other. The alternative seat 

 was a long box, comfortable when a local know- 

 ledge of splinters had been acquired. On the 



