78 THE MARKHOR 



Here every stone lives, whereas in the cathedrals life 

 is turned to stone. 



Steep, rocky walls descend sheer into the dark 

 chasms below us, only to appear again later as pale 

 green streaks in the far distance. 



Far away, down below there, Spring is laughing. 



We hurry on. Climbing, slipping, stumbling or 

 falling over a wild, stony desert, we come upon 

 underwood, thick forests or sparsely wooded regions 

 traversed by stony, gravel, sandy, mossy or leaf- 

 mould paths leading into green meadows of a 

 celestial beauty. 



How quickly does Nature change her gown in the 

 Himalayas ! Winter and summer side by side, also 

 poverty and luxury, death and life. Down here in 

 the pass there is a perfect carnival of Alpine flora 

 after the long winter sleep beneath snow and 

 ice. In the ravines and valleys, on the banks of 

 the rushing streams and streamlets are positive 

 forests of reeds and bulrushes. Red, green, and 

 white berries peep out from betwixt pale green 

 leaves. Climbing roses wreathe garlands amongst 

 the thick branches of these northern maples, 

 birches, and willows. Chestnuts, walnut-trees, 

 cedars, firs ornamental giants armoured in bark 

 arch themselves into shade-giving canopies, so 

 thick that daylight can scarcely force its way 

 through. A thousand mighty pillars uphold these 

 arches, their capitals merging into the green roof. 



