despair, hushed and breathless, he crouched down on the brink in the
hollow I had made for my knees, pressed his body against the ice as if
trying to get the advantage of the friction of every hair, gazed into
the first step, put his little feet together and slid them slowly,
slowly over the edge and down into it, bunching all four in it and
almost standing on his head. Then, without lifting his feet, as well as
I could see through the snow, he slowly worked them over the edge of the
step and down into the next and the next in succession in the same way,
and gained the end of the bridge. Then, lifting his feet with the
regularity and slowness of the vibrations of a seconds pendulum, as if
counting and measuring _one-two-three_, holding himself steady against
the gusty wind, and giving separate attention to each little step, he
gained the foot of the cliff, while I was on my knees leaning over to
give him a lift should he succeed in getting within reach of my arm.
Here he halted in dead silence, and it was here I feared he might fail,
for dogs are poor climbers. I had no cord. If I had had one, I would
have dropped a noose over his head and hauled him up. But while I was
thinking whether an available cord might be made out of clothing, he was
looking keenly into the series of notched steps and finger-holds I had
made, as if counting them, and fixing the position of each one of them
in his mind. Then suddenly up he came in a springy rush, hooking his
paws into the steps and notches so quickly that I could not see how it
was done, and whizzed past my head, safe at last!

And now came a scene! "Well done, well done, little boy! Brave boy!" I
cried, trying to catch and caress him; but he would not be caught. Never
before or since have I seen anything like so passionate a revulsion
from the depths of despair to exultant, triumphant, uncontrollable joy.
He flashed and darted hither and thither as if fairly demented,
screaming and shouting, swirling round and round in giddy loops and