THE VALE OF FLOWERS. 149 



pastoral duties for pastoral ditties, was ever 

 painted by poet in flowing rhymes, that 

 could equal the gorgeous beauty of this 

 vale of flowers, embosomed amidst rocks, 

 and overhung by lofty peaks encrusted with 

 eternal snow. 



We were not idle on the way, for a very 

 fine male burrell fell before my rifle, and 

 Wilson and I killed a large snow bear, the 

 old dame affording excellent sport. We had 

 been out all day in the rain, and were making 

 our way towards camp, when we espied her 

 with her cub down by the edge of a small 

 stream. It was a capital place for gettmg 

 a good shot, and down we went after 

 her. Whether I was blown, and my hand 

 unsteady, or from some other unknown 

 cause, instead of putting a bullet through 

 her heart, I shot her through the snout. 

 Away she went, and my second barrel, and 

 Wilson's double rifle fafled in stopping her. 

 Suddenly she remembered her cub, which 

 had stayed behind, and was now going 

 quietly off the other way, past us. Back she 



