Audubon, who first saw these Sheep in 

 the "Bad Lands" which form the most 

 eastern portion of their range, says of 

 this habitat : "Perhaps some idea of the 

 country they inhabit — which is called by 

 the French-Canadians and hunters 'mau- 

 vaise terres' — may be formed by imagin- 

 ing some hundreds of loaves of sugar of 

 different sizes, irregularly broken and 

 truncated at top, placed somewhat apart 

 and magnifying them into hills of con- 

 siderable size. Over these hills and 

 ravines the Rocky Mountain Sheep bound 

 up and down, and you may estimate the 

 difficulty of approaching them and con- 

 ceive the great activity and sure-footed- 

 ness of this species." 



Mr. Witmer Stone has said, "The 

 Bighorn might be called the chamois of 

 our Western mountains, scaling the 

 rugged cliffs and plunging over preci- 

 pices with the same agility and confidence 

 that mark the famous inhabitant of the 

 Alps." 



Male Mountain Sheep have been known 

 to attain a, weight of over three hundred 

 and fifty pounds. Their massive horns, 

 measured along the curvature, may have 

 a length of nearly thirty inches and may 

 have a weight of fifty pounds. While, 

 indeed, the horns are a trophy worthy 

 the efforts of the hunter, these harmless 

 creatures should be spared from wanton 

 slaughter. In many localities where they 

 were once common they are now rare or 

 entirely exterminated. Hundreds have 

 been killed merely for the sport that will 

 satisfy the uncontrolled spirit of the 

 hunter who does not value animal life. 

 Well may the true lover of Nature be 

 satisfied if he is permitted to watch the 

 movements of this wary Sheep. "The 

 elastic spring of the animal when started, 

 and the easy poise of the splendid head as 

 it settles back on the shoulders, are ex- 

 ceedingly graceful, and the animal seems 

 built and proportioned to the finest detail 

 for the life that it leads." 



Seth Mindwell. 



ROSE-TIME, 



June's in the world, and now 'tis time 



The rose-trees through the porches climb, — 



The rose-trees, that are near as old, 



With memories as manifold 



As ancient porch and roof-tree, where 



They breathe again the June-time air. 



White roses and red roses, they 



Are comrades gossiping today 



Near to the eaves they love and woo, 



Ah nearer than their forbears grew. 



All through the year, in sun and rain, 



Old thresholds never yet in vain 



Await the rose-time, and the rose 



The advent of the June-time knows. 



— Frank Walcott Hutt. 



