THE RAVEN'S NEST 75 



of rhododendron. In the meantime the snow had 

 changed to a lashing rain, probably the coldest that 

 has ever fallen on the North American continent. 

 Ploughing through slush, the black rhododendron 

 stems twisted around us like wet rubber, and the 

 hollow green leaves funneled ice-water down our 

 backs and into our ears. Breaking through the last 

 of the thickets, we at length reached a little brook 

 which ran along the foot of the cliff. A hundred feet 

 above, out from the middle of the cliff stretched a 

 long tongue of rock. Over this the cliff arched like 

 a roof, with a space between which widened toward 

 the tip of the tongue. In a niche above this cleft a 

 dark mass showed dimly through the rain. 



"The nest!" muttered the Collector hoarsely, 

 pouring a pint or so of rain-water down my neck 

 from his hat-brim as he bent toward me. I stared 

 with all my eyes, at last one of the chosen few to see 

 the nest of a Pennsylvania raven. It was made of 

 large sticks. The fresh broken ends and the droppings 

 on the cliff-side showed that it was a recent one. 

 There were no signs of either of the birds. We 

 solemnly removed our coats and sweaters and pre- 

 pared for the worst. To me the cliff looked much 

 like the Matterhorn, only slipperier. The Collector, 

 however, was most reassuring. He told me that the 

 going looked worse than it really was, and that, 

 anyway, if I did fall, death would be so nearly in- 

 stantaneous as to involve little if any suffering. 



Thus encouraged, I followed him gruntingly up a 

 path which had evidently been made by a chamois 



