and knowing very well that there is strength in numbers, they determined to have that man for supper, even if they had to put off their supper till breakfast-time. So while some sat down here and there, the others walked about, grunting and growling over their injuries. Bears can climb quite as well as men, and old Frank stood with fear and trembling in the middle of the roof, ready to receive with the butt of his gun the first nose that should rise above the edge. If two had happened to mount the roof on opposite sides, there would have been a small chance of life for the poor man. But the bears thought that solid ground was the safer place for them, so there they staid; and up above sat old Frank shivering, how long he never knew. It seemed centuries. It was a sharp, frosty autumn night, and, as he had on very little clothing, Frank was soon chilled almost to his bones. But the bears’ coats were warm enough. They were more hungry than they were cold, so there they sat and growled and waited for their prey to come down and be eaten. Soon a bitterly cold wind began to blow. Every joint in the poor man’s body stiffened; but it seemed pleasanter to freeze to death than to be eaten up by those ugly beasts, so he bore his discomfort as best he could. The hours of that night seemed to be endless, and the chill grew terrible; but at last a dull gray streak appeared in the East. No man was ever more glad to see the first sign of dawn than was that chilly watcher. Bears are very shy by daylight, and as the twilight little by little grew into broad day, Frank’s visitors trotted away disappointed and sulky up to their dens on the mountain. Their victim, more dead than alive, was able at last to climb down, and kindle a fire to warm himself. He still lives to tell the story in the same log cabin; but it has a good stout door now, and he will never again go bear-hunting with a shot-gun. So you see it is quite as pleasant not to have the bear families too neighborly. They rarely come out of the woods by daylight, except in late summer and autumn when the plum-thickets are hanging full of fruit; and so, fortunately, we do not often see them. The most sociable of all our wild neighbors is the prong-horned antelope, of which there are several bands running up and down the park. Every day as I ride out to the horse range I meet some of them; often, in suddenly mounting the crest of a ridge, I surprise a little herd grazing just beyond. Then it is beautiful to watch them as they bound gracefully away down the slope with the speed of a bird, seeming hardly to touch their slender limbs to the ground as they fly along. Gip likes nothing better than to go tearing after them as long as his breath holds out; though that small dog always finds it a hopeless chase, for only greyhounds and the swiftest horses can overtake the antelope when it is strong and fat from feeding freely on the fresh June grass. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE PRONG-HORNED ANTELOPE.]