108 COLLECTOR'S RAMBLES 



admit no one to her house who would desecrate the 

 sabbath. 



I fear our estimation of religious zeal was not 

 heightened as we turned away to trudge back through 

 the woods to Panton Hill. Rain prevented us from 

 camping in the forest. No houses were in sight except 

 on the other side of the river, and we could find no 

 way to cross. We lost our way several times, and 

 became so tired that further progress seemed impossi- 

 ble. It was Monday morning before we arrived at our 

 comfortable little room in the hotel. As Shelley 

 crawled into bed, he grunted out, 



" By George ! wake me up next week." 



The next morning, leaving our luggage to come on 

 in a cart, we started for a trip in the Plenty Ranges. 

 The journey most of the way was up hill, but the road 

 was good, the day fine, and we felt in harmony with 

 our joyous surroundings. Any one hearing our shout- 

 ing and singing, as we walked along, would know we 

 were from Yankee-land, no mistake. 



We were just in the middle of " Tramp, tramp,' 1 

 when a long, clear whistle, with a crack like a pistol- 

 shot at the end, stopped us short. Sitting down on 

 the roadside we listened, and soon the whistle began 

 again ; then followed the most exquisite mimicry of 

 many of the songsters of the wood, varied by sounds 

 resembling the clear tones of a distant bell, the rattle 

 of a rickety wagon, raspings and gratings that made the 



