The White Goat and his Country 



time before us still. Next morning we waked 

 in midwinter, the flakes flying thick and fu- 

 rious over a park that was no longer a pas- 

 ture, but a blind drift of snow. We lived 

 in camp, perfectly comfortable. Down at 

 the Forks I had had made a rough imitation 

 of a Sibley stove. All that its forger had to 

 go on was my unprofessional and inexpert 

 description, and a lame sketch in pencil ; but 

 he succeeded so well that the hollow iron 

 cone and joints of pipe he fitted together 

 turned out most efficient. The sight of the 

 apparatus packed on a horse with the panniers 

 was whimsical, and until he saw it work I 



know that T despised it. After that, it 



commanded his respect. All this stormy day 

 it roared and blazed, and sent a lusty heat 



throughout the tent. T cleaned the two 



goat-heads, and talked Shakspere and Thack- 

 eray to me. He quoted Henry the Fourth, 

 and regretted that Thackeray had not more 

 developed the character of George Warring- 

 ton. Warrington was the man in the book. 

 When night came the storm was gone. 



By eight the next morning we had sighted 

 another large solitary billy. But he had seen 



