I wanted to have one more look at the big cat, so Monkey had to climb the long ascent, much against his will, keeping as near to the rocks as possible; and very soon Gip plucked up courage to follow; but that was the last we ever saw of the mountain lion. However, in wandering up near the top of the mountain, I came on tracks that were quite as interesting to me as was the lion. They were the marks of a cloven hoof, nearly as large as the tracks of an ox, but longer and more pointed. As there were no cattle so high on the mountain, it was plain, at a glance, that they were footprints of the great wapiti, which, in the West, is always called an elk. Hurrying on in hope of catching sight of this great king of the forest, the footprints grew fresher, and soon I came to a glade where the grass, crushed down in spots, showed that a startled band of elk had just risen from their rest, and run away; and so, like a will-o’-the-wisp, they led me on through the forest, always letting me know that they were near, by their fresh tracks, but never quite near enough to be seen. The elk and the big-horned sheep are the shyest of all these wild animals; and the elk have the senses of sight and smell and hearing so very keen, that they will see a hunter, and will run from him, a dozen times for every time that he gets a first sight of them. Their great branching antlers, so large and heavy that a small boy could hardly lift them from the ground, lie scattered everywhere through the grass in the park, for they shed them every spring; and everywhere on the mountain-sides we find their footprints; and yet it is quite a rare event to meet them, and still more uncommon to kill them. [Illustration: THE AMERICAN ELK.] So all day long, with my pony and my dog, I wandered contentedly along the mountain-side, resting often under cool over-arching rocks or beside the snow-fed brooks, the banks of which are streaked with the crimson of the wild cyclamen; and all day long we tried to pay visits to our shy neighbors; but wherever we called, they were not at home. And, when the late afternoon began to drop blue, gauzy veils of shadows over the east-ward slope of the opposite mountain, we turned back toward the lonely, silent home, which now never hears the sweet sound of human speech. I can not now tell you of all the queer inhabitants of these mountains; but next time I shall have something to say to you about the beaver, the wild sheep, the buffalo, and some other interesting neighbors of mine. THE BABY’S DIMPLE. BY WILLIAM H. HAYNE. A south wind sought the baby’s cheek. Fresh from a laughing billow, And blew in elfish glee against The small face on the pillow. THE MONSTER. BY MARIA J. HAMMOND. [Illustration] I.