THE TRAIL 213 



if he can do his share of the camp work without 

 being asked: then, Dan says, he is a man. It 

 matters not what his faults, he is a man. For, 

 mark you, it is not all beer and skittles on the 

 trail, though it has its fascination. In the cool 

 mornings, when your horse is fresh and you mount 

 the great ridges and look off, far, far across the great 

 God-made hills and peaks; when you dip down 

 and down and find at the bottom the little stream 

 with its snow-fed, crystal current chattering over 

 the granite pebbles, and you stoop from your 

 saddle and fill your cup with the ambrosia; when 

 Bucephalus drinks and drinks, and draws long 

 breaths, and looks back at you with an expression 

 that says, as plain as words, ^^This beats all your 

 highballs;" in the long reaches of the great sugar- 

 pines where the very topmost boughs whisper 

 lowly, but all about you is still as the '^hush that 

 follows prayer;" in the little valleys where your 

 horse wades belly deep in the wild timothy, and 

 his every step expresses the fragrance from 

 unnamed and countless wild flowers; where the 

 shy woodfold peep out at you unafraid, and know 



