sends cold, prickly chills along my spine.

That time trouble came out of a clear sky, but sometimes a bit of
innocent curiosity betrays one. Thus one day, with sunshine overhead
and peaceful murmurs below, I stood upon a rock spire upthrust from the
slope of Mount Chapin, watching a band of Bighorn sheep above
timberline. The Fall River road now runs past the spot where they were
feeding. When I climbed up toward them, they gathered close together,
some of them scrambling up rocks for vantage points, all watching me
interestedly. They were not excited. They moved away slowly at my
near approach, stopping now and then to watch me or to feed. For
several hours I kept my position below them; sometimes edging close to
one of them, keeping in sight at all times, and being careful not to
move quickly.

The band worked its way to the foot of the steeper slopes, above the
tree line, hesitated, eyed me, then started up a narrow little passage
that led up between two cliffs. A rock-slide cluttered this granite
stair. Stable footholds were impossible for the loose rocks slipped
and slid, rolled from beneath the sheep's feet and bounded down the
slope.

Of a sudden something frightened the Bighorn, just what I had no time
to learn. Instantly every one of those nineteen sheep was in full
flight up the rock-slide. They bounded right and left, tacked across
it, turned, scrambled up, slipped back, tumbled, somersaulted, but
always regained their balance and made steady headway.

They seemed to have lost their wits, for they scattered, each selecting
his own route, all striving with great exertion to make speed up the
steep slope.

A barrage of stones fell all about me. Dust-puffs dotted the slide.
Then the whole thing seemed to move downward, like the rapids of a
river, dashing rock spray everywhere. The air was filled with flying
granite, as hurtling rocks struck and exploded into smoky fragments.
Bits, the size of wine-saps, scattered like birdshot; larger pieces,
the size of bushel baskets and barrels, bounded and danced, leaped away
from the slope, out into space, and dropped like plummets. Huge
bowlders (sleeping Titans that they were) stirred, roused themselves,
and came crashing down, plowing through the forest below, furrowing the
earth and cutting a swath through the trees as clean as a scythe
through grass. What was first merely the metallic clink of rolling
stones changed to a steady bombardment, and th