XVIII 

 FROM WEASEL TO PTARMIGAN 



f 1 H E sun beat down pitilessly. The heat 



was dry and blistering. The air shim- 

 mered up from the hot earth. The 

 hills rose around like the sides of a 

 great oven, roofed in with a cloudless hard blue. 

 The stream was visibly shrinking with a margin 

 of damp, which the water had just left behind. 



From its fleshy leaves rose the bold flower of 

 the orpine. The great willow herb hung out its 

 disc-like blossoms. So bright shone the invest- 

 ing heather that the patches of rose appeared 

 among the purple. The environment was charm- 

 ing, save for the exhaustion of the water, the 

 thirst of the dry channel, and the shadowlessness 

 of the self-shadowing hills. 



I turned aside into a piece of rough meadow ; 

 the grass was brown, the soil cracked. I lay 

 down with my face from the sun. Save for the 

 blistering about the neck, a siesta would have 

 been delightful. I was just dropping over, when 

 my ear caught a sharp scream. Strange how 

 significant are these elementary sounds how 



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