232 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May, 1920 
halted and decided to spend the night. 
At the wooden table under the eaves, 
in the fragrant air of evening I enjoyed 
a frugal supper of bread and cheese, and 
milk such as only the Alps produce, 
drawn from the sleek kine by apple- 
cheeked dairymaids. Faintly in the dis- 
tance could be heard the tinkling of cow- 
bells mingling with the echoes of water 
falling from melting snows. As I sat 
there in revery the full moon ascended 
behind the peaks and they stood forth 
like immense silhouettes throwing giant 
shadows across the opposite range. Slow- 
ly, long pale fingers of gold haze sought 
out the remote gullies, and, stretching at 
last over the pastures below, silvered all. 
pine-slopes, and the green pastures, 
dotted with 'herds of cattle and a few 
little gabled chalets like brown smudges 
on a lap of green. Far above rose the 
snow-slopes and jagged ridges mounting 
the almost perpendicular sides of the 
Dents Blanches. 
Up these long white slopes I climbed, 
bending low and breathing rhythmically 
to the crunch, crunch of my little rubber- 
soled shoes in the hard snow. In about 
an hour of steady pulling I had made the 
long detour which encircles the high pre- 
cipice of black rock above the lower snow- 
slopes. I was now ascending the tedious 
couloire of loose shale and little rolling 
stones which mounts to the top of the 
ridge just at the left of the first peak and 
dropped to the ground and froze. The 
chamois, just as instantly, started in a 
whirlwind of flying shale up the steep 
mountain-side and disappeared in a cur- 
tain of mist that hung over the peak. 
My heart beat fast. I was aroused to 
the subtlest tactics of a hunter by the 
tension of excitement. Slowly I extri- 
cated the little high-power rifle from my 
rucksack, unwrapped it from the old 
sweater and put it together, with scarce- 
ly a sound. Then, treading with cat-like 
caution, I made my way silently, and at 
the same time, as swiftly as possible to 
the top of the main peak. Here, com- 
pletely surrounded by an impenetrable 
mist I crouched behind the pillar of 
stones beside the little cross, and waited. 
A T the first glimmer of 
dawn I stretched my 
arms and leapt from the 
little white cot. That was a 
delicious sleep, with the crisp 
mountain air blowing gently in 
through the open dormer win- 
dow. 
“But where go you at such 
an early hour?” queried my 
buxom proprietress as she set 
my cafe au lait before me and 
wished me good-morning. She 
glanced curiously at my ruck- 
sack; but I knew she could 
never have guessed what was 
inside — even if she had felt it. 
“Oh, I’m going for une petite 
promenade to collect flowers,” I 
explained, spreading a large 
slab of cream-cheese over a 
piece of bread. “But not to 
pick edelweiss, like that!” she 
ejaculated, pointing, with an 
expression of horrified awe, at 
my little canvas shoes. “You 
are very drole, you Americans. 
Well, if you are not back to- 
night we shall send a guide up 
to look for you.” “Oh, pray 
don’t,” I pleaded, “I am return- 
ing by a different way.” “Eh 
bien, bonne chance /” she waved 
as I swung on my sack and 
started out across the meadow. 
At a half mile the land be- 
came studded with rocks and 
boulders, then it mounted 
steeply to the base of the cliffs. 
Here began the little trail 
known as Le Beda in the 
patois of that district. This path, 
scarcely more than a foot wide, is for 
the most part worn into the sheer rock 
of the precipice. In some places it 
squeezes into fissures in the cliffs, in 
others it slopes over a drop of many 
hundreds of feet with a shoulder of rock 
projecting above it, which necessitates 
the most careful crawling. 
When the rising sun tinged the highest 
peaks with rose-pink I had passed this 
ticklish space and was moving slowly up 
a narrow gully between sharp ridges, 
half rock and half flower-sprinkled grass- 
clumps. The clear, crisp mountain air 
blowing down from eternal snows and 
scented with the breath of gentian and 
soldanel, inspired a sweet Arcadian joy 
and gave strength for the hard climb yet 
to come. Far below me stretched the 
A ; 
Courtesy of American Museum of Natural History 
The Chamois 
which forms the southern frontier. 
Attaining this ridge, I paused a mo- 
ment, one foot in Switzerland and the 
other in France, and gazed down to the 
other side. There, far below on the pass 
called the Colie de Coux, like puny in- 
sects against the white background of 
snow could be seen three guards of Savoy 
leaning on their rifles. But I took care 
they didn’t see me, and continued the 
climb, keeping just this side of the ridge 
and peeping over it at intervals, after 
the manner of friend coyote. So intent 
was I upon watching the guards that I 
reached the summit of the lesser peak 
before I realized it — and ran plumb into a 
small herd of chamois feeding in a little 
flowery hollow just beyond. It would be 
hard to decide which was the more sur- 
prised party of the two Instantly I 
S the mist broke up into 
small clouds that gradu- 
ally dispersed, I could 
have seen through fleecy vistas 
far away over the top of the 
world. Northward rose the 
Bernese Alps, presided over by 
the white-tressed and majestic 
Jung Frau. Eastward the 
ranges lowered save for the 
obelisk of the Matterhorn. 
West, beyond the verdant less- 
er Alps of Savoy curved the 
blue waters of Leman, and 
faintly through a film of haze 
the towns could be seen on its 
far bank. South, over the 
higher ridges and snow-slopes, 
rose the sublimest vision of all 
— Mont Blanc, vastly white, 
sky-towering, immensely 
grand. Towards the left those 
smooth powdered domes nar- 
rowed to the sharp, ice-green 
pinacles of the Eguille Verte 
(Green Needle). 
But this wondrous panorama 
could not draw my eyes from 
the third peak of the Dents 
Blanches. There, silhouetted 
against the deep blue sky, stood 
the form of a big buck chamois 
— and I was watching his su- 
perb outline along my rifle- 
barrel at scarcely a hundred 
yards. 
It is most doubtful whether 
any old Helvetian chamois- 
hunter, with his loud-echoing 
iron-shod tramp, had ever 
found such a splendid target. It was al- 
most a shame to kill at such a distance. 
Yet, although favored by the weather, I 
had done my part in earning my prize. I 
smiled as I curled my finger fondly 
around the trigger and slowly squeezed 
it. The rifle rang. The crash! was suc- 
ceeded by a wEa-ck! The buck sprang 
straight out into the air, then plunged 
into the dizzy depths below. For a short 
interval the falling of rocks could be 
heard. The echoes grew fainter and 
fainter. Then silence. 
Hastily taking apart the little twenty- 
two I returned it to its swaddling-clothes 
and tucked it away in the sack again. 
Then I retraced my steps down the de- 
file of shale on to the lower snow-banks. 
At the frontier ridge I looked down at the 
three guards on the pass almost a mile 
