carelessly.

Jack moved slowly toward the pink hill. She could see that Carlos had
run lightly up it and was now crowing proudly from the peak of one of
the highest rocks, while poor Frieda was crawling laboriously after him,
fired with ambition and envy. Jack stopped a minute to laugh. Her small
sister was so round and chubby, that even though she clung to the shrubs
as she struggled upward, every now and then she would slip back almost
as far as she had gone on.

"Don't try to go any farther, Frieda; come back to me," Jack cried
warningly. But Carlos had leaped to another higher crag and was
beckoning his companion to follow him, so Frieda either didn't hear or
wouldn't heed her elder sister; neither did she look upward toward the
goal "to which she would ascend." Carlos vanished around another rock
and was out of sight; he did not think to mention that there was a flat
platform back of the first big rock and that it was already occupied.
Suddenly from her position near the bottom of the hill, Jack saw an old
goat thrust his head out over this rock and survey Frieda, with the long
gray beard and the glittering eye of "The Ancient Mariner." He was
evidently an old time resident of the Park and had no intention of
sharing his retreat with an outside intruder.

"Frieda!" Jack halloed, now frightened and running up the hill as fast
as she could, but she could hardly hope to come to the rescue in time.

Blue-eyed Frieda had crawled up the side of the crag toward the spot
where the goat awaited her. Instead of a shout of triumph she gave a
horrified gasp of terror, never having intended to invade the castle of
the particular ogre she now beheld.

At this moment a tourist, who had been wandering idly around surveying
the scenery, saw the little girl and the goat. He laughed and moved
quickly in their direction. Jack was also doing her level best to arrive
before the tragedy, but the old goat preferred not to wait. He took a
few steps forward, hunching his shoulders and sidling along, then with a
snort of dignified rage and a shove of his shaggy gray head, he struck
poor Frieda in the middle of her small person and sent her over the side
of the rock down the hill, where she landed in a bed of the coveted
bitter-root blossoms.

"If you won't cry, little girl, I'll give you something I have in my
pocket," a strange gentleman said hurriedly, just as Frieda opened her
mouth to bewail her misfortune. Not only was she injure