u can, let me haf a biscuit. By Gott, how goot dat vould
taste."

I yielded up a small loaf and encouraged him as best I could: "As I
figure it, we are within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek; I've
kept a careful diary of our travel. If we've passed over the Dease
Lake Trail, which is probably about four hundred miles from Hazleton
to Glenora, we must be now within thirty-five miles of Telegraph
Creek."

I was not half so sure of this as I made him think; but it gave him a
great deal of comfort, and he went off very much enlivened.

Sunday and no sun! It was raining when we awoke and the mosquitoes
were stickier than ever. Our grub was nearly gone, our horses thin
and weak, and the journey uncertain. All ill things seemed to
assemble like vultures to do us harm. The world was a grim place that
day. It was a question whether we were not still on the third south
fork instead of the second south fork, in which case we were at least
one hundred miles from our supplies. If we were forced to cross the
main Stikeen and go down on the other side, it might be even farther.

The men behind us were all suffering, and some of them were sure to
have a hard time if such weather continued. At the same time I felt
comparatively sure of our ground.

We were ragged, dirty, lame, unshaven, and unshorn--we were fighting
from morning till night. The trail became more discouraging each
moment that the rain continued to fall. There was little conversation
even between partner and myself. For many days we had moved in
perfect silence for the most part, though no gloom or sullenness
appeared in Burton's face. We were now lined up once more, taking the
trail without a word save the sharp outcry of the drivers hurrying
the horses forward, or the tinkle of the bells on the lead horse of
the train.

THE VULTURE

He wings a slow and watchful flight,
His neck is bare, his eyes are bright,
His plumage fits the starless night.

He sits at feast where cattle lie
Withering in ashen alkali,
And gorges till he scarce can fly.

But he is kingly on the breeze!
On rigid wing, in careless ease,
A soundless bark on viewless seas.
Piercing the purple storm cloud, he makes
The sun his neighbor, and shakes
His wrinkled neck in mock dismay,
And swings his slow, contemptuous way
Above the hot red lightning's play.

Monarch of cloudland--yet a ghoul of prey.

CAMPFIRES