MY FIRST CHAMOIS 



highest post is an hour's hard climbing from where 

 we sit. 



Behind, and on our right, rises a perpendicular 

 wall of rock ; and a deep cleft in the mountain side 

 yawns beneath us. We look across this chasm, 

 however, on to a steep stony slope, covered for the 

 most part with fir-trees, and down this the chamois 

 are expected to come. A tiny streamlet trickles 

 down the rocks, and from far beneath in the distant 

 valley comes the sound of the river. It is one of the 

 most striking features of the Zillerthal that, wherever 

 one is, there is always the murmur of water to be 

 heard. 



An hour slowly passes. The cartridges have long 

 been in my rifle, and I have consulted Wechselber- 

 ger, my trager, as to the range of various striking 

 landmarks. There is nothing more difficult to a 

 stranger to the mountains than the correct judgment 

 of distances. In the rarefied air everything appears 

 so much nearer than it really is. 



A black squirrel plays about on the stony slope 

 before us. How one envies the little fellow his 

 powers of climbing! It is strange, but here in the 

 mountains black squirrels are more common than 

 the red ones. 



An Alpine crow, or chough, as we call it in Eng- 

 land, flies away from the cliff above our heads, with 

 a harsh cry of defiance half croak, half caw ; and a 



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