ON THE MOUNTAINS 189 



nearly to the summit of the surrounding moun- 

 tains. 



My lodging, so much pleasanter than that of last 

 night, is in itself a temptation to prolong my stay. 

 It consists of a room in a cottage overhanging the 

 stream, where the ripple sings me into dreamland, 

 and then pleasantly fills up the intervals of sleep. 

 If the odour of cheese is not altogether absent, 

 it is not oppressive, and has to be tolerated 

 in districts so apt to be cut off from supplies, 

 that the people lay up stores against a long 

 winter. 



The haze of yesterday thickens into vapour, 

 which passes away in rain. I make the experi- 

 ment of ascending a mist-covered hill. All know- 

 ledge of direction is at once lost. Even the sense 

 of going up and coming down can no longer be 

 trusted. But, with a compass, perfect self- 

 possession, and a close acquaintance with the 

 sounds and aspects of the scene, one may find his 

 way. Shepherds and gamekeepers are not 

 puzzled. 



On a delightfully fresh morning, in a rain- 

 cooled and purified atmosphere, I face toward the 

 ridge where the glen comes to a dead pause. Isla 

 is not so mature in its majesty as Clova. It is even 



