QUIET DAYS AT THE PINES.
Who can describe the long, peaceful days of early autumn in the
country? To our boys and girls at uncle Will’s, the hours were full
of delight, though there were no more hair-breadth escapes, and no
fatiguing expeditions undertaken.
On the day after Tom’s adventure with the Indian, Mr. Percival visited
the old ledge with his men, and placing a charge of blasting powder in
the mouth of the cave, tumbled the overhanging rocks together in such
a way that the passage was closed forever. The boy slowly regained his
cheerfulness, and, rather shyly, took part in the pleasuring of the
rest.
Only two days now remained before the party was to break up.
There was little time for story-telling, for the girls were busy,
packing various collections of ferns, moss, and other memorials of
their good times in field and forest; and their kind host was occupied
from morning till night, in overseeing the fall work on the farm.
One evening, however, as they were sitting under one of the aged elms,
near the house, the conversation turned upon mountains and mountain
climbing.
“Did you and that boy--wasn’t his name Fred?--ever have any more
adventures together?” asked Pet.
“Oh, yes, a good many, my dear. If you’re not too sleepy, I can tell
you about a bit of a dangerous climb I once had myself, when we two
were abroad together.”
The moonlight rested softly on the little circle, and on uncle Will’s
face, as he talked. Pet put her hand in his, and begged him to go on.
It was their last story for the summer.
“We were both pretty well tired out, one July evening when we reached
Chamounix. Fred could bear mountain-climbing, and, what was worse,
mule-back riding, much better than I, so that, while I was glad to find
my way to my room, in the top of the queer old hotel, at an early hour
in the evening, Fred remained in the parlor, busily studying up maps
and guides for an excursion over the Mer de Glace to the ‘Garden,’ a
small, fertile spot, surrounded by eternal ice, in the very heart of
the mountains.
[Illustration: QUIET MOMENTS.]
“Next morning, he was off at four o’clock, leaving me to spend the day
quietly in the valley. I was disturbed but once more before rising;
this time by a herd of goats, who scrambled along under my windows,
with bells tingling merrily enough.
“In the course of the forenoon, I strolled away, book in hand,
following the course of the Arve for a little while, and then striking
off at right angles, up the banks of a small brook, which joins the
larger stream just above the village.
“The air was soft and sweet with summer sunlight and the breath of the
silent forests, reaching from my feet, higher and higher, until the
front rank looked on those desolate, glittering fields of snow that
crown Mount Blanc.
“Beside the brook the velvety turf was dotted with wild forget-me-nots
and pansies, growing there as peacefully as if they were not in the
very track of last year’s avalanche.
“At length I came to a spot where the brook had in ages past strewn
its own path with fragments of huge rocks, which it had loosened and
thrown down from some far-off height, where the foot of man never trod.
“One gigantic bowlder lay completely across the original bed of the
stream, and rose like a wall beside the water, that turned out of its
way, and ran off with a good-natured laugh.
“The sun here lay warm and bright, just counteracting the chill breeze
that came from the glaciers through the narrow gorge. I gathered a few
dry sticks, kindled a fire, merely for company, and nestled comfortably
down into an easy corner to read the rocks, the brook, the sky, and,
if there were time left, my book, which, if I remember rightly, was
‘Redgauntlet.’
“How long I sat there I cannot tell. It must have been two or three
hours, for it was past noon when I looked at my watch, threw the
smouldering firebrands into the brook, and rose to return to the hotel.
“As I did so, I noticed half a dozen footsteps in the steep, sandy bank
that formed the side of the ravine at this point. It suddenly occurred
to me that I had read in my guide-book, while I was sitting in my
own room, six months before, of a certain waterfall, which, from the
description, must surely be on this brook. Yes, I recollected the base
of the zig-zag path, that we had seen as we rode along the valley, on
our way from Tête Noire, late the preceding afternoon.
“I was feeling much refreshed and rested by my siesta, and, by a short
cut up over this embankment, I could doubtless strike that path after a
three minutes’ scramble, as some one had evidently done before me.
“So I would have a little adventure, and see one of the sights of
Chamounix all by myself.
“Certainly there was nothing rash in this resolve, or formidable in the
undertaking; though a certain feebleness resulting from a recent ill
turn at Geneva should have warned me against tasking my strength too
severely.
“At any rate, at it I went, laughing at the easiness of the ascent as
I followed the broad footsteps of my predecessor. My calculation was
that I should come out on the path at a point about seventy-five to one
hundred feet above my starting-place.
“Before I had proceeded far, however, the convenient tracks abruptly
ceased. Beyond, and on each side, there was nothing but the gravelly
bank, with here and there a big rock ready to drop at the lightest
touch.
“Plainly enough, the first climber had become discouraged at this
point, and had picked his way to the bottom again. As I looked back
I was startled to observe the elevation which I had reached, and I
involuntarily crouched closer to the earth, with a sensation as of
tipping over backwards.
“The movement, slight as it was, dislodged a clump of stones and sand,
which went rolling and plunging down at a great rate to the brook, the
sound of whose waters was now hardly audible. No wonder the man had
given it up! Should I go on, or literally back down, as he had done?
“My pluck was stirred, and although I heartily wished Fred was on hand
with his sympathetic courage, I resolved to complete what I had begun.
“It was tough work. Hands and knees now--and carefully placed every
time, at that. Once I nearly lost my balance by the unexpected yielding
of a large stone, which gave way under my foot. How fearfully long
it was before I heard it smite on the bowlders below! I knew if I
slipped, or missed one step, the impetus of a yard would send me after
the stone. As I looked over my shoulder, it seemed like clinging to the
slope of a cathedral roof, where a puff of wind might be fatal.
“There was no question now as to the course I must take. It was
‘Excelsior’ in sober earnest--only I didn’t have the inspiration of a
maiden, with a tear in her bright blue eye, looking on.
“Steeper and steeper! I was panting heavily in the rarified atmosphere,
and trembling from exhaustion. It was so terribly lonely. Nothing but
the dark forms of the trees, the waste of ice and snow, and now and
then a bird, winging its way silently over the gulf, until my brain
whirled as I watched its slow flight.
“By to-morrow they would miss me, and organize a search, with Fred at
their head. They would find my footprints beside the brook, where I
had leaped carelessly across after pansies; then they would come upon
the blackened traces of the little fire, and the loosened gravel of
the steep bank; they would look upward with a shudder, and search the
harder. Pretty soon one of them would lean over a crevice among the
bowlders, shrink back with a cry of horror, and beckon to the others.
All this if I failed by one step!
“Still I worked on laboriously, often pausing for giddiness or a want
of breath, and digging with my finger-nails little hollows in the hard
bank for my feet.
“Once or twice a long, tough root of grass saved me; and soon, to
my joy, straggling bushes, strong enough to support a few pounds of
weight, thrust their tops through the sand-bed.
“Then came scrubby trees, cedar and fir, oftentimes growing straight
out from a vertical face of rock, and quivering from root to tip as I
drew myself cautiously up.
“I shall never forget the agony of the moment when one of them came out
entirely, and let me fall backward. Fortunately its comrades were near
enough to save me, though it was with rough hands.
“To shorten the story, I climbed at last out upon a small, level spot,
which proved to be the longed-for path.
“Following it painfully up for a few rods, I reached a little hut,
where I found a kind old Frenchwoman, who refreshed me with food and
drink, helped me to make my tattered clothes presentable, and held up
her hands after the demonstrative fashion of her nation, when she heard
of my climb.
“‘Had any one ever ascended to the cataract upon that side?’” I asked.
“‘_Jamais, monsieur; jamais, jamais!_’” (Never, monsieur; never, never.)
“And could she tell me the height from the valley?”
“_Mille pieds._”
“A thousand feet! Well, I had had mountain-climbing enough for one
day, and after a visit to the Cascade, which was close by, I hobbled
down the easy path and back to the hotel, to read ‘Redgauntlet,’ until
bedtime.
“When Fred got back, and heard the story, his eyes were round enough,
as he declared he would not leave me behind again, to play invalid,
until we came in sight of the wharf in East Boston. And he kept his
promise.”