In the Heart of the Mountains. 137 



It was late for flowers ; but there were a few tall 

 gentians and occasional patches of holly fern, with 

 seas of cranberry plants, the vivid scarlet of whose 

 leaves made, with the yellow stains of the lichen, 

 happy touches of relieving colour among the piles of 

 grey rock — the long-accumulated spoils of storm and 

 avalanche. 



At the head of the gorge is a waterfall of great 

 height — 1,000 feet the foresters say; though its silvery 

 column was but slender now. 



When the labours of the day were over, and we 

 gathered round the door in the deepening twilight, 

 there was a cloud upon the brow of the man whose 

 turn it was to cook for the company. 



A pot in which he was stewing bilberries for supper 

 had taken it into its ill-balanced mind to topple 

 over, and spill half the precious compound on the 

 floor. 



To add to his misery, the tea which we had purchased 

 of an Apothek in Garmisch could not be induced, by 

 any persuasion whatever, to impart any colour, to 

 speak of, to the water. He had stirred it vigorously 

 with no effect ; in vain had he put in another spoonful ; 

 he had placed the teapot on the very stove to no 

 purpose at all. 



It was some consolation to him at such a moment 

 to be reminded of Darwin's camp among the moun- 

 tains, and the ' cursed pot ' which c did not choose to 

 boil potatoes,' and his soul was soothed at length with 



