Kennedy was unable to stand alone, and was awed by his comrade’s bravery and daring courage. Could he succeed? The sick man was frightened at the gloomy prospect. Two hundred miles over the virgin snow, and dragging three times his weight on a clumsy sled. All day trudging along, and at night camping on the dreary waste of unfriendly ice and snow. How far it seemed back to civilization and a warm room. How cold the moon and the stars appeared away up in the blue sky. God was supposed to be up there, too, but he seemed to be farther away than the remotest star on these lonely nights. But the undaunted Gordon refused to give up. His optimism never failed. He must reach civilization and a physician, for Kennedy’s sake. One hundred miles are successfully, though painfully trudged over; then twenty added—140 traversed, when one night Gordon camped to await the morning. Weary and worn out with many days of exertion, he slept soundly, dreaming of home and friends, wife and children. When he awoke the stillness of the frozen north seemed more depressing than ever before. There were many weary miles to travel yet; but he got up with resolutions as strong as ever. He prepared the morning meal before he attempted to wake Kennedy. But Kennedy would never awaken again. Gordon was shocked and heart-broken on making the awful discovery. His big-hearted Irish friend was beyond the aid of an earthly physician. Perhaps it was the loneliness and the utter helplessness of the big man that took away his courage and caused him to give up and die; for he had seemed very much depressed before Gordon went to sleep that night. But Gordon’s friendship did not die, and for four wearisome days he tugged at the sledge dragging the dead body of his friend over the crunching snow, too true a friend to desert an old companion even after death had robbed the body of all that was loving and lovable, and the generous Irish heart was silenced forever. Who but Gordon could picture those last days and lonely nights, when he labored so hard at his task, and camped alone on the dreary snow at the side of his friend. He must sleep close to the body at night to prevent the hungry wolves from devouring all that was left of his friend. Alone with the dead and the awful dreariness and bitter cold, and the realization that the trip had been a failure. Friendship had done all that friend could do for the living, and all that friend could do for the dead. The town was reached and Kennedy given decent burial, and Gordon returned to the States. Little Fred Gordon. To look at him one would never dream of such friendship and courage. When I knew him he was keeping a feed store at the corner of Fifth and Main streets, Grand Junction, Colorado, with no thought of that awful experience in the land of delusive gold. SIGHING OF THE PINES