78 SPAKKS FROM A GEOLOGIST'S HAMMER. 



feet above the sea-level. The sun is sinking behind the 

 needles of the Aiguilles Rouges, and our day's toil is 

 ended. Here we must endeavor to gain such sleep as the 

 place affords, and make an early start on the morrow. 

 We retire as soon as the bars of slanting sunlight have 

 been lifted from the head of Dome du Gouter, which rises 

 under the calm sky above us. It is already dark in the 

 valley. 



Following the custom, we repose without removing 

 any clothing. The night is chill, and three blankets are 

 not refused. 



It is always the case that when most anxious to sleep 

 we sleep the least. Another party occupies the adjoin- 

 ing apartment, and, having no purpose to ascend farther, 

 they feel no need of devoting the early hours to sleep, 

 But we must turn out at two in the morning. Our 

 neighbors' conversation is but partially deadened by the 

 board partition, and, though carried on in low tones, is 

 but too audible. We make most desperate efforts to sleep, 

 but our heads are like beehives when the inmates swarm. 

 Instead of sleeping, we perform triple work at thinking. 



At length all is quiet, and the poppy has sweetly com- 

 posed our eyelids. 



Rap! rap! it is the guide calling us to another day's 

 work. 



We set out at one or two o'clock in the morning, by 

 the light of lanterns. Traveling mechanically, and half 

 asleep, we traverse an expanse of ice which forms the up- 

 per limits of the Glacier de Taconnay, and encounter an 

 almost vertical escarpment of ice, about 300 feet high, 

 called the Petites Montees. Gazing in dumb amazement 

 at this tremendous ice-wall, we notice that the clear but 



