They started out at a good pace over the plateau of Bigelow Lawn, Lou looking eagerly at the numerous wild flowers in the rock crannies. The snow was already melting, but it only made the trail the more slippery, and this, coupled with the high wind, made walking difficult. The girl and her companion had no poles, so Rob and Art lent them theirs, and Rob walked beside the girl to help her over bad places. A third of a mile above the refuge they came upon the Boott Spur Trail, leading off to the right, down the long ridge of the spur, southward. “Tuckerman’s Ravine is in there, to the east of Boott Spur,” said the Scout Master. “It seems to be filled with clouds now.” The clouds, however, were off the spur, and though now, as the summit path swung rather sharply toward the north and began to go up steeply, they were entering into the vapor about the cone of Washington, it was much less dense than during the morning, and they could see the path ahead without much difficulty. This path was something like a trench in the rocks, apparently made by picking up loose stones and piling them on either side till the bottom was smooth enough to walk on--or, rather, not too rough to walk on. “This path’s a cinch now,” said Peanut, going into the lead. Every one, however, as the trail grew steeper and steeper, began to pant, and pause often for breath. “What’s the matter with my wind?” asked Art. “Is it the fog in my lungs?” “It’s the altitude,” Mr. Rogers laughed. “It oughtn’t to bother you boys much, though. You are young. I’m the one who should be short breathed. The older you get, the less ready your heart is to respond to high altitudes.” “I don’t mind it,” sang back Peanut. “Art feels it because he’s so fat!” They toiled on a few moments more in silence, and then Lou suddenly exclaimed, “Look! a junco!” Sure enough, out from under a rock was hopping a junco. Art went toward it, and looking under the rock found the nest. “Well!” he said. “What do you think of that! A junco nesting on the ground!” “Where else would he nest here?” Lou laughed. “But juncos are winter birds, I thought.” “Well, ain’t this winter weather enough for you to-day?” said Art. “The top of Washington is said to be about the climate of Labrador,” Mr. Rogers put in. “That’s why some juncos always spend the summer here instead of going farther north.” Lou was watching the pretty gray and white bird, as it hopped excitedly over the rocks, almost invisible sometimes against the bare gray granite, and in the whitish mist. “That junco is protectively colored on these rocks, all right,” he said. “But gee, he looks kind of lonely way up here!” “Lonely!” exclaimed Frank. “I must say, this whole place is the most desolate looking thing I ever saw--nothing but big hunks of granite piled every which way, and no sun and no sky and no earth below you. I feel kind of as if we were the only people in the whole world.”