To those who have spent long months among the snows of the Alps, the words "going down" have a magic all their own. During the winter the exhilaration of the clear air, the brilliance of the sunshine, and the stillness of the mountain solitudes hold one as by a spell. But now March was here; and the sensation of quickened vitality which spring inspires in every living creature was tingling in my veins, and brought with it an unoonquerable restlessness. Looking down into the valley 4000 feet below, one knew that nature was there breaking into all its vernal beauty. White violets would be peeping from orannies in the vineyard walls, and the almond trees, blushing fresh and fair, would be glad dening the otherwise barren fields.

The charm of our life, perched as we were upon a ledge overhanging the world, suddenly failed in attractiveness, and in its place sprang up a desire for life and move ment for the sights and sounds of a town, for the ory of the newsvendors, the crack of whips, or the clang of the tram-bells in the streets.

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The pleasure-seekers and the sport enthusiasts had left us long before, and the hotel visitors had shrunk to a little band consisting for the most part of invalids and those who bore them company. To us who still remained the ques

tion of how much longer the frost would hold was of paramount interest, and we asked each other almost daily, "Have you made any plans about geing down?"

Around us as yet there was small sign of spring; the scene looked as wintry as at Christmas. Snow enveloped the landscape, glittering brilliantly in the sunshine, or lying grey-white in the shade. Pines and larches alone emerged, and stood in irregular clusters of greenish blackness, their gloom heightened by contrast with their surroundings. These gnarled and twisted trees, firmly rooted among the rooks, appeared so ancient and so weather-beaten that one wondered whether youth could ever have been theirs. The characteristic features in these high altitudes are curiously uniform-a study in three colours: the vivid whiteness of the slopes, the sombre tint of the firs, and, above and embracing all, the glorious blue of the heavens.

Let no one think of snow as lifeless or monotonous. With the exception of the sea, nothing in nature reflects the moods of the elements 80 vividly. It lies silver in the moonlight, gleams like fairy crystals under the stars, takes on & warm look from the glow of the sun, flushes in the orimson of sunset, or remains dead and shadowless beneath a threatening sky. Its tex

ture, too, varies with the atmospheric conditions; its changes are endless, its wonders unsurpassed; and to those who live amidst it, it becomes in the end almost as companionable as fields and pastures.

Nor are these solitary regions as devoid of animal life as is commonly supposed. The wild oreatures hide themselves cunningly enough from the intruding mortal, but, for those who have eyes to see, indications of their presence abound; and no more fascinating pastime can be imagined than tracing the marks they leave upon the betraying snow.

It is easy to describe the stealthy tracks of a fox, or to speak of the lace-like tracery left by a rat; but who can adequately depiot the marvels of the frost itself, whose chill breath creates the wondrous soene ? Who can picture the gleam of the icicles? No pen can portray the fantasy of the hoar-frost; nor can the artist's brush reproduce the exquisite workmanship of the snowflowers. The delicacy of these fairy forms, whose filigree construction will dissolve at a breath, is finer than that of the frailest blossom. And yet ... and yet now that spring is here, I would give all these elusive silver petals for one primrose from the lowlands, or exchange the mysterious hush of the upper air for the song of a thrush at sundown,

But the season to which we were looking forward so eagerly was not hailed with

equal joy by all. Our hotel proprietor had been more or less indifferent to the weather while sure of his visitors. Now, however, he developed a persuasive eloquence on the subject of the thaw-that dreaded moment that would empty his house. The frost, he confidently informed us daily, would hold for two or three weeks yet, probably a month; such cases were known. There were olear indications-though these were never cited-that the break would prove exceptionally late this year. This, he averred, was a dangerous month, and melancholy instances of those who had " gone

down too early were recalled. We should remember "ce pauvre Monsieur Bompard," who, beguiled by the Maroh sunshine of the previous year, had descended to the plain at a perilously early date. "C'était bien vite fini pour lui! Mais que voulez-vous?" he would conclude, with a pitying shrug at the unreasonableness of hotel visitors.

It was therefore in an almost apologetic tone that I informed the solemn-faced lady presiding in the Bureau that I should be leaving in five days' time.

"C'est dommage," was the only reply my pronouncement elicited. But within half an hour the news that No. 17 had given notice had spread to the entire staff of the hotel. The chambermaid yearned over me with a sudden affection; the head waiter could scarcely refrain from more than brotherly attentions; while the hall

porter, all aglow with interest in my movements, handed me my correspondence with a deferential &we remarkably foreign to his usual behaviour. Though annoyed at first by these transparent assiduities, I soon smiled at the recollection of a similar state of mind in school-days, when a generous unole, uninteresting enough during his visits, sprang, on the eve of his departure, to unwonted importance in my eyes, The traits in human nature do not vary greatly, it would seem, with class or nationality.

The momentous day dawned at last. My luggage, lashed to a baggage-sleigh, had been despatched at an early hour, to ensure its getting over the snow while the night frost held. As I entered the familiar salle-à-manger for a last breakfast, I realised with surprise how attached I had become to my surroundings. Those already seated at table seemed interested in my journey, and all prophesied a delightful day. A little gathering of visitors and servants assembled to bid me bon voyage. After much handshaking and many good wishes, I started off-with inevitably lightened pockets.

The walk before me was of no ordinary nature. To desoend 4000 feet in a few hours is a notable experience at this time of year, when, leaving snow still piled up to the first floor windows, one finds spring reigning in the valley. In the lowlands it had been a winter of oon

tinual snowstorms and intervening thaws; but with us these falls had merely meant one more layer on the already heavily-burdened earth. This ever-increasing load gradually pinned to the ground the lower branches of the pines, where they had remained firmly embedded for many weeks. But now as, under the sun's warmth, the load began to lessen, one of these would leap into the air, released without the slightest warning, and scatter its imprisoning burden abroad. A branch thus freed will shake itself, almost like an animal exulting in its new found liberty, before resuming its normal position. More than once I came in for one of these unexpected snow douches in the forest, through which the road passed on the first part of the descent.

To

After a time the walking became difficult. The partial thaw had honeycombed the snow to a treacherous extent: at one spot the surface held, at the next I the next I floundered through it ankle-deep. walk on the bank piled up by the snow-ploughs brought equal risks; here, too, one got a firm foothold for & few steps, and then sank in deeper than ever. There was nothing for it but to plod on as best I could.

After a while a felled pinetree by the wayside tempted me to rest. The day was one of extreme beauty. The unclouded sky was, to the north, of the deepest blue, against which the slopes glittered white

and pure. But to the south the colour was of softer and more tender hue; while the sun, riding in his glory, seemed, by the very intensity of his own light, to blanch that portion of the heavens in which he shone in splendour. On the farther side of the valley rose immense buttresses of rook, the foothills of the Alpine giants which towered above them

"... the strong foundations of the earth

Where torrents have their birth."

It was only now, when I was about to lose sight of these magnificent peaks, my companions for so long, that I realised how much they had come to mean to me, and I experienced a sense of personal loss on gazing at them for the last time.

Just below my halting-place I came to the spot where sleigh-runners must needs give way to wheel traffic, and the road on either side was lined with ramshackle conveyances dilapidated almost past belief. Anything more forlorn than this collection of battered vehicles stranded by the wayside can hardly be imagined. The method adopted is simple. Starting from the valley, a man drives his carriage as far as wheels will take it; then he transfers his passengers, his baggage, and his horses to the waiting sleigh, left unceremoniously to take care of itself since the last descent, and continues his journey on runners. The point at which this change is accomplished

must necessarily vary with the state of the roads: in autumn and spring it is high up on the mountain-side, but in mid-winter lies almost in the valley.

The going now became steadily worse. I had read in some book of Arotio travel of the delight which explorers experience on first treading on terra firma after months upon the ice, and of their satisfaction in crunching the pebbles underfoot. I had imagined some such pleasure would be mine once I was past the snow. But the quagmire of slush seemed never-ending, though at each bend of the zigzagging road the surface turned a little less white and a little more brown-a little less snow and a little more mud-until at last the former looked merely like whipped cream dissolving on a cup of chocolate.

As I made my way through this sea of mud, I became aware that some one was fellowing me. Loeking round, I discovered a little peasant girl at my heels, scrutinising me with the interest of one who seldom sees a stranger. Each time I turned, her eyes were fixed upon me with a grave curiosity. But although this quaint little maiden stared in such an unabashed manner, she apparently felt no desire for companionship, and answered my "bon jour" with brevity. The solemnity of the mountain child was well marked in her bearing. Solitude and constant work robs these little mortals of the gaiety and irresponsibility of

childhood, turns them into miniature men and women, wise beyond their years. My sturdy little friend was dressed in the usual manner. A clean, though patched, blue-and-white overall; a worsted oross-over, primly fastened behind; hand-knitted stockings and wooden - soled boots composed her outfit. Her head was covered by a red handkerchief tied under the chin, and her straight flaxen hair, braided into two plaits, bobbed up and down on either side of her hotte-the Swiss basket carried on the shoulders. With characteristic contrariness, seeing her thus reserved, I felt a desire to converse, and after walking together for some distance, I asked her name.

"Elise," was the brief reply; and in answer to a further question, she vouchsafed to add that she was ten years of age. I noticed that her basket was covered with a spotless linen cloth, and asked her what it contained. To this I got no answer, but she volunteered the information that she was going to see her uncle in the valley to "lui faire une certaine commission."

"Surely you are not going all the way down?" I exclaimed in surprise.

"Pourquoi pas?" came the stolid rejoinder. Then silence fell again. Looking at the stunted little figure as she marched so sedately to "make her commission," I wondered what English parents would send off their ten-year-old on a like journey with no thought of any possibility of mishap.

"Two days!" I gasped. What is it in the nearness of birth and death, the beginning and the end, that always startles? If one is told that behind those shuttered windows a dead body lies awaiting burial, even the most careless is surprised into awe. And so, though in a less degree, with birth.

"Two days," I mused aloud. "Two and a half if you wish it," she oondescended, "since he was born at midnight, and it is now midday."

Not knowing what to reply, but wishing to show my interest, I murmured something, awkwardly enough expressed I doubt not, about hoping her mother was well.

"One is never tellement bien at these times," she replied severely; and added, "But my father returned to work in the forest this morning."

"Was he ill too, then?"

"Ill!" with immense scorn. "Malade? hey non! he drank a little, that's all;" and, perhaps noting my expression, she continued with the worldly wisdom of ten years old, "it is usual—at such times."

We had come to a bend in the road, and she turned and