“Not quite so much so as Lanier’s English hat, perhaps, but sufficiently so for my taste.—Hallo, Burnet!—which is the pack-horse?” “This one,” answers Mr. Burnet. He has brought with him three horses and a mule. One is led up to the piazza and loaded with a number of shawls, several quilts— which Eric insists upon borrowing from Mrs. Patton—and the provisions, which have been packed pell-mell into an enormous bag. Side-saddles are placed on the others, and loud are Sylvia’s remonstrances when she finds she is not to be allowed to ride Bonnibelle. “I can’t permit you to put your neck in jeopardy by riding a horse not accustomed to climbing,” says Eric, authoritatively. “These animals have been reared on the mountains, and are as sure-footed as goats.” “They are quite as ugly,” remarks the young lady, ungratefully. Then she glances from their tall, raw-boned proportions to the small, round mule which stands by, composedly switching its tail. “If I can’t ride Bonnibelle, I will ride _that_,” she says. “A very good choice,” observes Mr. Lanier. “Mules are not handsome, but they are better on mountains—because more sure-footed—than horses.” “They are only slightly inclined to prefer their own way,” says Charley, “and two of a trade never agree.” Sylvia does not condescend to notice this remark. She mounts the mule—disregarding the laughter which we cannot restrain—and announces that she is ready. Mrs. Cardigan and I are elevated on the tall mountain-steeds; the gentlemen mount the lowland horses, on which they do not hesitate to risk their necks; the guide, with his axe on his shoulder, leads the pack-horse in front—and so we start. CHAPTER XI. “Ferny pastures, beetling rock, Slopes half-islanded by streams, Glisten in the amber gleams Of the sunshine—gleams that mock Shadowed field and cool gray rock. “Farther up the sobbing pines Hold their uncontested sway, Shutting out the smiling day With their solemn, serried lines, —Mournful, melancholy pines!” The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths of the forest into which we enter—an enchanted world of far-reaching greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping cascades. Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a cavalcade like ours following in single file the winding path (not road) that leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the ascent fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one commands a view of the entire line—of horsemen in slouched hats and gray coats, of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks serving as riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and grasses. The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and we catch a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some of the numerous questions addressed to him.