dents which, even in this age of brutal realism, are too painful for written words, and I will, therefore, merely chronicle the bare fact that we, all of us, did actually reach the Couvercle. Sinking on various angular stones, we pointed out to each other's admiration the splendid overhanging roof, the perfect shelter of the gîte, and the admirable underground apartment wherein it appeared one could rest in warmth, dryness, and security, even though old Æolus broke his sceptre and sent all the tempests howling through the hills. At this juncture a white squall swept down upon us. Our hats and other loose properties were torn rudely from our grasp, and we ourselves were literally blown out of the lower or cellar apartment. We immediately agreed that this lower apartment was a fraud, and made our way back to the customary gite. We soon, however, discovered that the huge overhanging roof constituted an excellent fan and drove the whole force of the icy blast, sharpened and edged with hail and sleet, into and through every comer and crevice that could be found.
The rain and melting snow which fell on the top of the rock ran down inside it, and the more important trickles were promptly captured and imprisoned in sundry bottles and tin boilers, thus enabling our cooking operations to proceed without any painful and protracted search for springs or tiny rivulets. When, however, an unexpected
