70 Musings by Camp-Fire and Wayside 



she is up to her elbows in suds at times, it is that 

 she may hang out pure linens. If she raise a dust 

 in water or air, it is only that she may lay it down in 

 some more useful form and place. From what I 

 had read of the Alpine streams leaping down from 

 the snow-fields, I supposed them to be clear as 

 crystal and cold as ice. But the Reuss was mud- 

 dier than the Missouri at its muddiest, and its con- 

 fluents were of the same color. Then I expected 

 to see the same in the Alaskan mountain streams, 

 but they were as pure as a spring, and delicious for 

 drinking. If one would look farther along in the 

 Alps he would find the vale of Chamouni or Lake 

 Leman. These emerge, ever new, from her dusty 

 and slushy factories, in which she works with a 

 passion derived from the sun, and with an eagerness 

 and a rush. In Alaska she has about finished up 

 her volcanic and glacial preparations, and is sitting 

 down in the cool for a rest. Her streams there are 

 bedded in porphyry and ice. If one should ask her, 

 in Alaska, "How is business?" she would answer, 

 "Rather quiet — not much doing." 



The mud in the Alpine streams comes of heat 

 and obstruction, of melted snow-water in conflict 

 with stubborn old rocks. It is a battle-ground 

 between progress and conservatism. The former 

 wishes to arrive at Chamouni or Leman. The latter 

 wishes to have things remain as they are in undi- 

 gested chunks of barren basalt and somber gneiss. 



