elessly as thistledowns; then they strike the rocks and come
crashing towards the lake with the hollow roar of an avalanche.

At the head of the lake we find ourselves in an enormous amphitheatre
of mountains. Glaciers are peering down upon us. Snow-fields glare at us
with glistening eyes. Black crags seem to bend above us with an eternal
frown. Streamers of foam float from the forehead of the hills and the
lips of the dark ravines. But there is a little river of cold, pure
water flowing from one of the rivers of ice, and a pleasant shelter of
young trees and bushes growing among the debris of shattered rocks; and
there we build our camp-fire and eat our lunch.

Hunger is a most impudent appetite. It makes a man forget all the
proprieties. What place is there so lofty, so awful, that he will not
dare to sit down in it and partake of food? Even on the side of Mount
Sinai, the elders of Israel spread their out-of-door table, "and did eat
and drink."

I see the Tarn of the Elk at this moment, just as it looked in the clear
sunlight of that August afternoon, ten years ago. Far down in a hollow
of the desolate hills it nestles, four thousand feet above the sea. The
moorland trail hangs high above it, and, though it is a mile away, every
curve of the treeless shore, every shoal and reef in the light green
water is clearly visible. With a powerful field-glass one can almost see
the large trout for which the pond is famous.

The shelter-hut on the bank is built of rough gray stones, and the roof
is leaky to the light as well as to the weather. But there are two beds
in it, one for my guide and one for me; and a practicable fireplace,
which is soon filled with a blaze of comfort. There is also a random
library of novels, which former fishermen have thoughtfully left behind
them. I like strong reading in the wilderness. Give me a story with
plenty of danger and wholesome fighting in it,--"The Three Musketeers,"
or "Treasure Island," or "The Afghan's Knife." Intricate studies of
social dilemmas and tales of mild philandering seem bloodless and
insipid.

The trout in the Tarn of the Elk are large, undoubtedly, but they are
also few in number and shy in disposition. Either some of the peasants
have been fishing over them with the deadly "otter," or else they
belong to that variety of the trout family known as TRUTTA DAMNOSA,--the
species which you can see but cannot take. We watched these aggravating
fish playing on the surfa