But the courier, good for something, acted promptly. He seized a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and rushed down the path. He bade the victim of an attempt to do something he couldn't do, to eat of the loaf and drink all he could of wine (which he did, especially the latter), shut his eyes, grab his hand, and run; adding cheerfully:-- "Geep your eysh shut dight--oof yoo opens dem at all yoo are gone--and run mit me." In this way the poor man was brought to the little tavern, where he sat in gloomy silence while the rest of the party essayed the glacier. I may add here that he made the descent safely. There is another path, a mile or two longer, but entirely safe. He didn't mind the mile or two. [Sidenote: SOMETHING ABOUT GLACIERS.] The Glacier des Bossons, while not so imposing as the Mer de Glace, has a great many wonderful points. Here at the beginning of this dangerous ledge is one of the best places to study it. The surface, rough and jagged, with sharp peaks and crags from three to twenty feet high, is partially covered with slate, rocks and debris, while beneath this, bright and sparkling, is the pure, solid ice, with its greenish-blue tint. Just opposite us, resting on the ice, is an immense bowlder that must weigh at least twenty tons, while all about are smaller stones, varying in weight from one hundred pounds to four or five tons. These immense stones became detached from the mountain, ages ago, by the continued pressure of the solid ice, expanded by the heat and contracted again by the cold, and have gradually been carried down the mountain on the bosom of this imperceptibly moving field of ice. [Illustration: ROCKS POLISHED BY OLD GLACIERS.] The warm sun, which beats down upon us with terrible effect, gradually melts exposed portions of the snow and ice, and tiny rivulets are seen trickling along in the crevasses and depressions. They come together at the foot of the glacier, and, after a fall of about sixty feet, they wander off down the woods to join the Arve. As we stand there enjoying the beautiful view down the Chamonix Valley, the courier breaks in and says it is time to go on. Day dreaming is over, and, with no kindly feelings toward him, we push on up the steep and narrow ledge. At the Pavilion, a little one-story house, we obtained a fine view of the glacier. We also obtained some fine wine and bread. At this height the air is so rarified that a little wine is all that one can drink. But after the long, hard walk through the intense heat, it is very refreshing, and revives one's drooping spirits wonderfully.