The Glaciers.

A hundred miles further, for much of the way through tall forest avenues and past calm lakes of the woods, silent, calm, reflecting all the beauty of the forest selvage and the high and gleaming Alps. Then, with serene farm scenes as the foreground, the forest that seemingly swallows the down sweep of the Franz Josef's white causeway that descends nine thousand feet in a few miles. The contrast between ice and forest will be most marked at this time of the year because the rata that clothes the lower mountain sides on each flank of that strange writhing tongue of ice should be out in flower, a frame of glowing colour for the pure white stream.