' DONE TO A TURX.' 231 



the weary hours I passed plodding up to it 

 with bleeding feet during the most tiring 

 mornino' I remember. 



o 



I was done to a turn, and I remember 

 counting my steps on the way home, and 

 wondering how many hundreds I should have 

 to count before arrivmg at the top of each 

 ascent. I know that whenever I raised my 

 eyes at the end of say 300 or 1,000 I in- 

 variably seemed no nearer than when I began 

 to count. But when our camp came in sight, 

 and Frank, the sybarite, was seen surrounded 

 by visitors, an object of interest (and doubt- 

 less of admiration), to a troop of Caucasian 

 shepherds, I almost ran the rest of the way 

 home, despite my bleeding feet. 



The long-expected herd had arrived at 

 last. One of its members was already hang- 

 ing by his heels to the pole of our larder ; 

 two bowls of milk had been abstracted by 

 Frank from the mothers of the herd as a fine 



