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!"
