IN GREEN ALASKA 



pared us for the color of the ice, especially of the 

 newly exposed parts and of the bergs that rose from 

 beneath the water — its deep, almost indigo blue. 

 Huge bergs were floating about that suggested 

 masses of blue vitriol. 



As soon as practicable, many of us went ashore in 

 the naphtha launches, and were soon hurrying over 

 the great plateau of sand, gravel, and boulders 

 which the retreating glacier had left, and which 

 forms its vast terminal moraine. 



Many of the rocks and stones on the surface were 

 sharp and angular, others were smooth and rounded. 

 These latter had evidently passed as it were through 

 the gizzard of the huge monster, while the others 

 had been carried on its back. A walk of a mile or 

 more brought us much nearer the glacier's front, 

 and standing high on the bank of the moraine we 

 could observe it at our leisure. The roar that fol- 

 lowed the discharge of ice from its front constantly 

 suggested the blasting in mines or in railroad cuts. 

 The spray often rose nearly to the top of the glacier. 

 Night and day, summer and winter, this intermit- 

 tent and explosive discharge of the ice into the inlet 

 goes on and has gone on for centuries. When we 

 awoke in the night we heard its muffled thunder, 

 sometimes so loud as to jar the windows in our state- 

 rooms, while the swells caused by the falling and 

 rising masses rocked the ship. Probably few more 

 strange and impressive spectacles than this glacier 

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