The If cart of the Forest, 141 



When under the deep blue sky of summer the great 

 mountains wear no sign of winter beyond a few 

 white patches that linger in deep rifts here and there, 

 or a scanty glacier that fills some cool hollow at the 

 foot of a precipice, there are few haunts of the wander- 

 ing Briton more dear to the lover of nature and the 

 follower of art among the wild recesses of these 

 southern Highlands. 



The hostelry upon its shore seems like the last 

 outpost of civilization, pushed to the farthest limits of 

 the world. 



Close round the broad-eaved chalet gather the dark 

 ranks of pines that like a sea stretch away far up the 

 steep sides of the great amphitheatre that rises round 

 the lake. Above the dark waves of the forest tower 

 the huge buttresses of the mountain wall — ending at 

 last in the rugged majesty of the monarch of the 

 Highlands. 



The soft air that steals in at the open window's is 

 heavy with the sw r eet breath of the forest. From the 

 little balcony you may hear the call of the hoopoe, or 

 see the bright plumage of the oriole flash among the 

 shadows of the trees. 



From your window you may watch the shy black 

 woodpecker settle on the topmost bough of a withered 

 pine, whose skeleton arms rise grey and gaunt above 

 its younger comrades. He makes a fine figure up 

 there with his sable plumage and his crimson crown, 

 looking up now and then to utter his long - drawn 

 melancholy cry. Now his call is answered from the 



