overlooking the Great Chasm. The tomb had to be blasted from solid rock.
All night long the dull rumble of explosives told me that the rangers,
led by the wearer of the Croix de Guerre, were toiling away. The first
snow of the season was falling when the funeral cortège started for the
grave. White Mountain and other friends were pall-bearers, and twenty
cowboys on black horses followed the casket. Father Vabre read the
burial service, and George Wharton James spoke briefly of the friendship
which had bound them together for many years. Since that time both the
good priest and the famous author have passed on.

Mr. Brant had an Airedale dog that was his constant companion. For days
after his death this dog would get his master's hat and stick and search
all over the hotel for him. He thought it was time for their daily walk.
When the dog died they buried him near his master's grave. This had been
Mr. Brant's request.

The snow grew deeper and the mercury continued to go down, until it was
almost impossible to spend much time outside. But the little iron stove
stuffed full of pine wood kept the cabin fairly warm, and the birds and
squirrels learned to stay close to the stovepipe on the roof.

The squirrels would come to the cabin windows and pat against them with
their tiny paws. They were begging for something to eat, and if a door
or window were left open a minute it was good-by to anything found on
the table. Bread, cake, or even fruit was a temptation not to be
resisted. One would grab the prize and dart up the trunk of a big pine
tree with the whole tribe hot-footing it right after him. One bold
fellow waylaid me one morning when I opened the door, and bounced up on
the step and into the kitchen. I shoved him off the cabinet, and he
jumped on top of the stove. That wasn't hot enough to burn him but