THE CHAMOIS 87 



days' provisions stowed away in the ' Rucksack ' of which 

 useful style of game-bag a word anon brought me at dusk to the 

 chalet selected on this occasion. It had been vacated five or 

 six weeks before by its solitary inmate and his dozen or so 

 of hardy mountain-bred cattle, man and beast having returned 

 to lower and more hospitable regions after their three or four 

 weeks' sojourn in these elevated solitudes. The small low log 

 hut was about as primitive and isolated a human habitation as 

 one could imagine. The nearest dwelling was five hours' walk 

 off, and as one looked upon the scene familiar to one from 

 stalks of old, a delightful sense of solitude made itself felt. In 

 front of the hut the primitive ' Brunnen,' made out of a hollowed 

 pine-tree, spouted forth gaily and merrily a clear stream fed from 

 a rill coming straight from the nearest snow-field a few hundred 

 feet above the hut. A sound usually indicative of human pre- 

 sence, it now only heightened the sense of the utter solitude 

 of the scene upon which the sombre mantle of night was about 

 to sink. As the door was locked, a few shingles removed from 

 one corner where the eaves of the slanting roof approached 

 the ground to within three feet gave ingress to the hayloft, 

 from which the soot-begrimed interior of the primitively 

 constructed hut could be gained by a short ladder. The door 

 was easily unfastened from the inside, and a fire on the open 

 hearth soon sent forth its genial blaze. From the owner of the 

 hut, whose habitation was one of the last which I passed that 

 morning on my way up, the hiding-place of a frying-pan and a 

 small stock of flour was learnt, and with these additions to 

 what I had brought, a substantial meal of ' schmarrn ' and tea 

 was soon prepared and eaten, while a pipe or two before 

 turning into the hay for the night were enjoyed sitting on a 

 primitive bench in front of the chalet. From here in the 

 bright moonlight I could see my goal for the morrow, the 

 declivities of a boldly rising peak which I knew of yore to be 

 a pretty sure find for chamois at this season of the year, ana 

 where on the occasion of my last visit I had demonstrated to 

 a friend how easy it was to spoil a stalk and miss a chamois. 



