io8 1(A{MBLES OF A VOfMINIS 



knife that is handed round among the company, to 

 regard even a failure in the supply of butter as only 

 a fresh material for a jest. 



The eye wanders away from the little scene of life and 

 movement, from the warm touches of colour and the 

 drifting smoke of the camp fire, across the sullen bog 

 land, to the sterile hills. Over the rim of the vast hollow 

 rise range after range of dim outlines, shrouded in grey 

 mist. At times the veil is lifted for a moment, far 

 gleams of sunlight strike on steep mountain sides, and 

 glitter on the still faces of tarns that sleep in hollows of 

 the hills. There is silence everywhere, save for the fitful 

 breath of wind that lightly stirs the rushes of the tufted 

 grass upon the long, low walls. 



Far up on the grey sky a troop of gulls are wheeling, 

 their wide wings hardly trembling as they soar in vast 

 circles overhead. There is a sound of the sea in their 

 wild voices, a sound that, like the faint call-note of some 

 wandering plover, seems but to deepen the sense of soli- 

 tude and gloom. But now through a rift in the grey 

 curtain shows the great mass of Snowdon, dark on the 

 glowing sky. A gleam of sunlight silvers the long lakes 

 lying at his feet ; soft hues of purple trace the outlines 

 of each mighty peak, linger on the great pyramid of Crib 

 Goch, the stupendous precipice of Llwydd, on Y Wyddfa's 

 sovereign head. 



" The fascination and allure 

 Of the sweet landscape chains the will, 

 The traveller lingers on the hill, 

 His parted lips are breathing still 

 The last sigh of the Moor." 



