WINTER WEATHER 



79 



It would be impossible to imagine any sight more dreary and melan- 

 choly than that offered by the ranges when the snow went off in March. 

 The land was a mere barren waste ; not a green thing could be seen ; the 

 dead grass eaten off till the country looked as if it had been shaved with a 

 razor. Occasionally among the desolate hills a rider would come across a 

 band of gaunt, hollow-flanked cattle feebly cropping the sparse, dry past- 

 urage, too listless to move out of the way ; and the blackened carcasses 

 lay in the sheltered spots, some stretched out, others in as natural a posi- 

 tion as if the animals had merely lain down to rest. It was small wonder 

 that cheerful stockmen were rare objects that spring. 



Our only comfort was that we did not, as usual, suffer a heavy loss 

 from weak cattle getting mired down in the springs and mud-holes when 

 the ice broke up — for all the weak animals were dead already. The truth 

 is, ours is a primitive industry, and we suffer the reverses as well as enjoy 

 the successes only known to primitive peoples. A hard winter is to us in 

 the north what a dry summer is to Texas or Australia — what seasons of 

 famine once were to all peoples. We still live in an iron age that the old 

 civilized world has long passed by. The men of the border reckon upon 

 stern and unending struggles with their iron-bound surroundings ; against 

 the grim harshness of their existence they set the strength and the abound- 

 ing vitality that come with it. They run risks to life and limb that are 

 unknown to the dwellers in cities ; and what the men freely brave, the 

 beasts that they own must also sometimes suffer. 



