ao8 WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON 



tell with what violence it might sweep this un- 

 sheltered top of Shag Rock, to the peril even of 

 our lives. 



There was nothing to do but climb down. It 

 would surely clear by tomorrow, and, consoling 

 ourselves, and particularly the eleven-year-old 

 boy, with this hope, we backed over the edge of 

 the peak for the descent. 



The rocks were wet by this time, and the foot- 

 ing treacherous. The birds, as we worked slowly 

 along, seemed to fear us less than earlier in the 

 day, flying closer to our heads, their harsh cries 

 and flapping wings in the gathering dusk adding 

 not a little to the strain of the work. 



Yet worse than the birds over me; was the 

 emptiness behind me, the void and space be- 

 neath, which plucked and pulled at me, and which 

 I could not turn upon and face. I could only 

 reach down into it with a foot, feel out through 

 it for an edge, a point, a seam of firm rock, any- 

 thing to touch and stay me on. 



Over the hanging places I was lowered with a 

 rope, and down to me, bumping serenely along, 

 his free hand patting all the little murres by the 

 way, came Eleven Years. He wished to stay on the 



