Letters to a Friend 



I collected some of this mud and observed that 

 it was entirely mineral in composition and fine 

 as flour, like the mud from a fine-grit grind 

 stone. Before I had time to reason I said, Gla 

 cier mud, mountain meal. 



Then I observed that this muddy stream is 

 sued from a bank of fresh quarried stones and 

 dirt that was sixty or seventy feet in height. 

 This I at once took to be a moraine. In climb 

 ing to the top of it I was struck with the steep 

 ness of its slope and with its raw, unsettled, 

 plantless, newborn appearance. The slightest 

 touch started blocks of red and black slate, fol 

 lowed by a rattling train of smaller stones and 

 sand and a cloud of the dry dust of mud, the 

 whole moraine being as free from lichens and 

 weather stains as if dug from the mountain that 

 very day. 



When I had scrambled to the top of the mo 

 raine, I saw what seemed a huge snow-bank 

 four or five hundred yards in length by half a 

 mile in width. Imbedded in its stained and fur 

 rowed surface were stones and dirt like that of 

 [ 136] 



