SISTER ELLEN'S FISH STORY 



171 



one in my own right, I succumb to human frailty 

 and tell it. 



We had been traveling for many days in a 

 "mountain wagon" — my father, myself and Uncle 

 Sam. We had crossed the Big Horn mountains, 

 with all their deceptive miles of terraced foot-hills; 

 we had seen with awe and wonder the rich valleys 



BROOK TROUT 



overhung by barren peaks that never put off their 

 caps, no matter who came by. All these glories 

 were left behind us, and we were wearily travers- 

 ing the alkali plains that lay between us and Paint 

 Rock canon, our journey's end. 



All day we had seen as through a glass darkly. 

 There was but one color on the landscape — a dull, 

 grayish dun. Far and wide grew nothing greener 

 than the spectral sage-bush. The herd of antelope 

 that swept like a phantom over our horizon line 

 in the early morning, the coyote that followed us 



