Little Rivers [53]
with plenty of blankets. There was
good store of eggs, canned meats, and nourishing black bread. The
friendly goats came bleating up to the door at nightfall to be
milked. And in charge of all this luxury there was a cheerful
peasant-wife with her brown-eyed daughter, to entertain travellers.
It was a pleasant sight to see them, as they sat down to their
supper with my guide; all three bowed their heads and said their
"grace before meat," the guide repeating the longer prayer and the
mother and daughter coming in with the responses. I went to bed
with a warm and comfortable feeling about my heart. It was a good
ending for the day. In the morning, if the weather remained clear,
the alarm-clock was to wake us at three for the ascent to the
summit.
But can it be three o'clock already. The gibbous moon still hangs
in the sky and casts a feeble light over the scene. Then up and
away for the final climb. How rough the path is among the black
rocks along the ridge! Now we strike out on the gently rising
glacier, across the crust of snow, picking our way among the
crevasses, with the rope tied about our waists for fear of a fall.
How cold it is! But now the gray light of morning dawns, and now
the beams of sunrise shoot up behind the Glockner, and now the sun
itself glitters into sight. The snow grows softer as we toil up
the steep, narrow comb between the Gross-Venediger and his
neighbour the Klein-Venediger. At last we have reached our
journey's end. See, the whole of the Tyrol is spread out before us
in wondrous splendour, as we stand on this snowy ridge; and at our
feet the Schlatten glacier, like a long, white snake, curls down
into the valley.
There is still a little peak above us; an overhanging horn of snow
which the wind has built against the mountain-top. I would like to
stand there, just for a moment. The guide protests it would be
dangerous, for if the snow should break it would be a fall of a
thousand feet to the glacier on the northern side. But let us dare
the few steps upward. How our feet sink! Is the snow slipping?
Look at the glacier! What is happening? It is wrinkling and
curling backward on us, serpent-like. Its head rises far above us.
All its icy crests are clashing together like the ringing of a
thousand bells. We are falling! I fling out my arm to grasp the
guide--and awake to find myself clutching a pillow in the bunk.
The alarm-clock is ringing fiercely for three o'clock. A driving
snow-storm is beating against the window. The ground is white.
Peer through the clouds as I may, I cannot even catch a glimpse of
the vanished Gross-Venediger.
1892.
AU LARGE
Wherever we strayed, the same tranquil leisure enfolded us; day
followed day in an order unbroken and peaceful as the unfolding of
the flowers and the silent march of the stars. Time no longer ran
like the few sands in a delicate hour-glass held by a fragile human
hand, but like a majestic river fed by fathomless seas. . . . We
gave ourselves up to the sweetness of that unmeasured life, without
thought of yesterday or to-morrow; we drank the cup to-day held to
our lips, and knew that so long as we were athirst that draught
would not be denied us." --HAMILTON W. MABIE: Under the Trees.
There is magic in words, surely, and many a treasure besides Ali
Baba's is unlocked with a verbal key. Some charm in the mere
sound, some association with the pleasant past, touches a secret
spring. The bars are down; the gate open; you are made free of all
the fields of memory and fancy--by a word.
Au large! Envoyez au large! is the cry of the Canadian voyageurs as
they thrust their paddles against the shore and push out on the
broad lake for a journey through the wilderness. Au large! is what
the man in the bow shouts to the man in the stern when the birch
canoe is running down the rapids, and the water grows too
good store of eggs, canned meats, and nourishing black bread. The
friendly goats came bleating up to the door at nightfall to be
milked. And in charge of all this luxury there was a cheerful
peasant-wife with her brown-eyed daughter, to entertain travellers.
It was a pleasant sight to see them, as they sat down to their
supper with my guide; all three bowed their heads and said their
"grace before meat," the guide repeating the longer prayer and the
mother and daughter coming in with the responses. I went to bed
with a warm and comfortable feeling about my heart. It was a good
ending for the day. In the morning, if the weather remained clear,
the alarm-clock was to wake us at three for the ascent to the
summit.
But can it be three o'clock already. The gibbous moon still hangs
in the sky and casts a feeble light over the scene. Then up and
away for the final climb. How rough the path is among the black
rocks along the ridge! Now we strike out on the gently rising
glacier, across the crust of snow, picking our way among the
crevasses, with the rope tied about our waists for fear of a fall.
How cold it is! But now the gray light of morning dawns, and now
the beams of sunrise shoot up behind the Glockner, and now the sun
itself glitters into sight. The snow grows softer as we toil up
the steep, narrow comb between the Gross-Venediger and his
neighbour the Klein-Venediger. At last we have reached our
journey's end. See, the whole of the Tyrol is spread out before us
in wondrous splendour, as we stand on this snowy ridge; and at our
feet the Schlatten glacier, like a long, white snake, curls down
into the valley.
There is still a little peak above us; an overhanging horn of snow
which the wind has built against the mountain-top. I would like to
stand there, just for a moment. The guide protests it would be
dangerous, for if the snow should break it would be a fall of a
thousand feet to the glacier on the northern side. But let us dare
the few steps upward. How our feet sink! Is the snow slipping?
Look at the glacier! What is happening? It is wrinkling and
curling backward on us, serpent-like. Its head rises far above us.
All its icy crests are clashing together like the ringing of a
thousand bells. We are falling! I fling out my arm to grasp the
guide--and awake to find myself clutching a pillow in the bunk.
The alarm-clock is ringing fiercely for three o'clock. A driving
snow-storm is beating against the window. The ground is white.
Peer through the clouds as I may, I cannot even catch a glimpse of
the vanished Gross-Venediger.
1892.
AU LARGE
Wherever we strayed, the same tranquil leisure enfolded us; day
followed day in an order unbroken and peaceful as the unfolding of
the flowers and the silent march of the stars. Time no longer ran
like the few sands in a delicate hour-glass held by a fragile human
hand, but like a majestic river fed by fathomless seas. . . . We
gave ourselves up to the sweetness of that unmeasured life, without
thought of yesterday or to-morrow; we drank the cup to-day held to
our lips, and knew that so long as we were athirst that draught
would not be denied us." --HAMILTON W. MABIE: Under the Trees.
There is magic in words, surely, and many a treasure besides Ali
Baba's is unlocked with a verbal key. Some charm in the mere
sound, some association with the pleasant past, touches a secret
spring. The bars are down; the gate open; you are made free of all
the fields of memory and fancy--by a word.
Au large! Envoyez au large! is the cry of the Canadian voyageurs as
they thrust their paddles against the shore and push out on the
broad lake for a journey through the wilderness. Au large! is what
the man in the bow shouts to the man in the stern when the birch
canoe is running down the rapids, and the water grows too