160 THE WHITE-MANED SEROW 



I didn't get a serow. Perhaps George didn't read 

 his prayers earnestly enough, and we must evidently 

 have gone to the wrong place for the serow. The 

 dogs killed a young musk-deer, and that was the 

 total bag. 



We stayed for some days more at Archuen, 

 trying to drive serow every day. The weather 

 turned very cold, and it was trying work waiting 

 for hours in the open for serow which never put 

 in an appearance. The glen up which we had 

 journeyed but a fortnight before to our sheep 

 camp presented a very different appearance. I 

 have never seen so sudden a change. Then it 

 had seemed the height of summer. The river 

 babbled and chuckled with a pleasant, cooling 

 murmur, grateful to the ear. The trees were 

 smothered in a bravery of green. Through gaps 

 in their rich mantle the sun filtered on to the 

 mossy carpet of the woodland floor, and amid the 

 emerald hues firs showed pointed and dark. Now 

 it was so changed that it seemed impossible a few 

 short days could have wrought the miracle. 

 Swollen with heavy rains, the river tore and roared 

 through the gorges. The hill- tops were swathed 

 in mist. Jagged spires and pinnacles of rock were 

 thrust from the lower slopes into its dense folds. 

 The verdure of the woods was gone. No sunlight 

 splashed on the mosses. Dead yellow leaves fell 

 sadly, and revealed a delicate tracery of branches 

 purple with bloom as of the vine. The firs stood 

 dark and threatening, dominating the leafless trees. 

 The grasses which covered the southern hill slopes, 

 no longer opulent with the mature charms of 

 summer, were stained to melancholy browns and 



