VIII 



THE ROCKS FOR THE CONIES 



1 e were hunting for mountain sheep 

 in the wildest peaks of the Wal- 

 lowa range, and incidentally had 

 tried the fishing in the Imnaha. 

 Such trout ! But it is so in all the 

 Oregon rivers. We were after mountain sheep, 

 not trout, and we came off with a cony. It was 

 not the first time. Many an expedition has so 

 turned out; many of mine, I mean, conies for 

 sheep, the feeble folk for the strong rangers of 

 the high hills. 



Life is not a matter of size, except, perhaps, to 

 the hunter. To the naturalist and lover of nature, 

 life is a matter of kind, the cony after his kind 

 being as interesting as the wild goat after his 

 kind, or the stork after her kind. I doubt, indeed, 

 if ever the mystery and wonder of animal life 

 impressed me more than while I sat by the cony 

 slide on a peak above the clouds asking the little 



