Evening star., 1940-01-07

some Job, but did 1t. At last I
squirmed out onto the rock on my
stomach. It felt good to be safe
again. I was out OF breath and more
frightened than ever.
! just lay there for q moment.
wondering what I should do next.
When I got my wind, I stood up.
and I guess I must have lost my
head for a while. I remember run
ming back the way I had come,
shouting like mad. I cried a little,
too.
I didn't seem to mind anything.
I tore through the pucker bush and
jumped over rocks. falling and get
ting up and humping into things.
Nothing seemed to matter if I could
only get out of there. When 1 was
all out of breath. sat down on a
rock and, after crying while, 1
calmed down and began to think.
No use running around like that
when the cloud was so thick you
couldn't see where you were going
The thing I had to do was to figure
out plan and stick to 1t.
Il Must Keep My Head
remembered some of the things
I learned in scouting. First thing,
I must keep my head, then, maybe,
if I looked close, I could find a trail.
I got down on my hands and knees
and secuted around. Not a thing
not turned-over tuft of grass-not
broken weed nor bent twig-not
displaced stone.
That's funny" I said out loud,
somebody must have come along
here, sometime. Maybe, if I wait
until the cloud parts again, I can get
my bearings" But the cloud rolled
in denser than ever, and more sleet
fell. I was getting awfully cold and
wet.
I listened. There was a queer
whining noise in the air. Some
times it sounded like heavy surf.
I tried to figure out where it came
from. It might have been wind
blowing in rocky caves, or wind in
treetops on the timberline below.
That sound made me feel creepy.
I thought of Pamela, the evil In
dian spirit of the mountain. and
the stories the guides told about
him. He lived on the mountain top
right where I was standing, per-
haps. Some guides call the clouds
that stream across the top of the
mountain, the Plumes of Pamela.
He hated his own race and, once,
according to the strange tale of a
half-breed, he shook his white
feathery plumes over party Of
Redskins, and they just disappeared.
There they were, one minute, shin
ing in the sun, and the next. they
we're gone and nothing was left of
them but clouds that dissolved into
air and disappeared.
Sleet Stings Like Needles.
Strange that people should be-
lieve such yarns, but that's the kind
of story the guides tell around their
mountain campfires. Good stories,
too-corkers-but caught the
guides winking at each other as
they spun them for our benefit. And
now, there I was, right on the spot,
maybe, where those Indians had
vanished. What if I should vanish,
too? What would mommy do and
where would dad look for me?
Funny what thoughts pop into a
fellows head when he is alone with
the clouds and the mountain!
I knew I couldn't sit where I was
very long. Christmas! The wind
was sharp, and it blew so hard that
the rain and sleet stung like needles
was getting wet all over. My
fleece lined REFER kept my chest
dry, but my blue dungarees were
cold and stiff as sboards. Dungarees
are all right for dry hikes, but
they're terrible when they get cold
and wet.
People want to know why I didn't
stay where I was. Someone was
sure to find me, they say. Well
I'd like to see anyone stay up there
In that wind and sleet with the
night coming on. You'd freeze stid