They hurried headlong down the hill,
Past many a snow-wreath wild,
Until the older guide stood still
Beside a sleeping child.
He licked the little icy hand
With his rough, kindly tongue;
With his warm breath he gently fanned
The tresses fair and long.
The child looked up, with eyes of blue,
As if the whole he guessed;
His arms around the dog he threw,
And sunk again to rest.
Once more he woke, and wrapped him fast
In the warm covering sent;
The dogs then with their charge, at last,
Up the steep mountain went.