GALICIA, 1910 
my boots he would polish them with the sleeve of his coat. Doubtless 
some touching faith existed in his simple mind that he was cleaning them, 
but any one who knows a Galician coat and the manifold usages to which 
it is put might be disposed to differ. One day he even wanted to wash me, 
and with difficulty I explained to him that I had done it before and had 
not forgotten how, and that I was not some mighty Prince who had crowds 
of minions to slosh the soap on his Royal person. But Pietro was not only a 
nice man but a good hunter, bold as well as patient, a combination we do 
not always find amongst these people who are inclined to potter when it 
comes to the final attack. For four days we seemed to be entirely 
out of luck. After the first evening, when no fewer than five stags were 
calling in various parts of my ground, we never heard another sound, 
although going for tremendous tramps over the roughest and most likely 
looking country I had ever seen. The warm weather had completely foiled 
us, so that when Pietro called me up at 3 a. m. on the morning of October 4 
I felt that another snooze in my comfortable reindeer bag would be a far 
better way of spending the morning than endless climbing. 
“ A big stag calling on Satki, your honour,” said Pietro, as he plumped 
the steaming kettle on the wooden table. I was out of bed and dressing 
furiously in a moment. By the light of a candle we stumbled along the path 
that led to the summit of the mountain and there sat down to await the 
day. 
What a wonderful and exquisite thing is daybreak in the mountains, and 
in no place more so than the gorgeous Carpathians. There is grand scenery 
in many lands, but only in Scotland, Alaska, East Africa and the Car- 
pathians have I viewed noble scenery combined with colour. The ground 
around us bore a ghostly appearance, for in gathering dawn the blueberry 
bushes and small spruces are silvered with the night frost. A pale orange 
tint envelops the sky to the east, behind the rich purple peaks that stand 
out in bold corrugated masses against the sky. It is not long before we 
can see into the valley and discern great bold islands covered with dark 
green spruce forests, emerging from a sea of white clouds that roll and 
disperse in the growing warmth. As the first rays of the sun touch the 
highest peaks a roe barks in the forest below, doubtless alarmed by a 
passing wolf or bear, and the first ring -ousels are crying to one another 
to be ready for the southern trek. Where but a few moments before all 
was silence is now gay with the voice of birds. Hundreds of crossbills, 
goldfinches, siskins, redpolls, chaffinches, flit by in serried flocks of fifty 
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