X Chamois- Hunting 535 



which the sun had long since melted the last night's 

 snow, leaving nothing but the pure water -crystal, 

 revelled in long draughts of ice-cold water, regardless 

 of the consequences. 



We lay there, resting ourselves and peering down 

 the crevasses, for some time. How deliciously refresh- 

 ing was that cool green light, filtered through the 

 translucent ice, to our eyes wearied by the eternal 

 glare of the snow -fields ! I have often wondered 

 why no poet has ever chosen one of these same 

 crevasses, with its tinkling stream, and fairy bridges, 

 and battlements of pure green ice bathed in a strange 

 unearthly phosphorescent light, for the home of some 

 glacier Undine. Where could one find a fitter 

 palace for some delicate Ariel than such places as 

 the nwulins of the Mer de Glace, the ice-grottoes of 

 the Grindenwald, or the Rhone glacier, or even the 

 commonest crack in the most insignificant sheet of 

 frozen snow ? How exquisitely beautiful are those 

 little emerald basons, fit baths for Titania, filled with 

 water so pure and clear that one almost doubts its 

 presence, till its exquisite coolness touches one's 

 parched lips. I never wondered at the excitement 

 of that enthusiastic Frenchman, who, being held by 

 the legs to prevent him throwing himself into the 

 arms of the ice -nymph, whom he doubtless saw 

 beckoning to him from below, hurled his hat into 

 the moiilin, and then raced down to the source of the 

 Arveiron to see it appear, hoping, doubtless, that it 

 would bring him some tidings of fairyland. But the 



