SIDE LIGHTS ON BIRDS 



cheered by a little party of snow-buntings, a most 

 pleasant sight in this well-nigh birdless land. 

 They come forward with sweet call notes — the 

 white bars on their wings contrasting with the 

 dark rocks. 



But we have little time to wait. Already we 

 are bound together like convicts, with a gaoler 

 guide at either end of the rope, and the gang is 

 set in motion by a slight jerk. 



The great ice-field slopes upwards to the sky, 

 a glistening white expanse, broken to the right 

 by masses of dark rock. For awhile the ascent 

 is gradual, and there appears to be little need for 

 the provision of the ropes. 



Still we are bidden to walk warily. Long cracks 

 are visible in the snow crust, and these mark the 

 dreaded crevasses — great fissures in the solid ice 

 below, which have become silted over with snow. 



A false step here, and the powdery coating gives 

 beneath the feet, and the careless traveller dis- 

 appears to find a narrow grave a hundred feet or 

 more below in the heart of the ice. This is no 

 imaginary danger. Only a little while back two 

 men were lost at the same point, and their bodies 

 never recovered. 



This risk accounts for the great precaution of 

 the experienced guides. Properly roped, a trip 

 on one of the smaller crevasses means a mere 

 stumble in the snow, the tightening ends at once 

 preventing a further descent. Now we are 

 favoured by a sight which means much to the 

 lover of wild nature. On a small range of crag, 

 rising from the snow, a dark form is seen moving. 



The glasses are at once brought to bear. There 

 can be no mistaking the alert form, the graceful 

 limbs, the strangely curved horns of the chamois. 



For a moment he rests as though surveying the 

 intruders curiously then he moves higher, leaping 



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