One summer I lived a while in a little hotel that stood in a village and faced the mountain. Out of my window I could see a great glacier, and from it came a roaring waterfall, the white blood of the ice monster, running away forever. The huge mountain-mass loomed up sombre, imposing. All day long it stood sturdy in the sun, and showed its brown shoulders, its rock teeth, its green pine whiskers, as if a sleeping giant, a dead demiurge. In the morning the dawn fairies bathed it in rosy mist; at noon the sun blazed over it and it glistened like the shields of warriors; at twilight it towered, dark, thought ful, melancholy, the dwelling place of mystery and of the hosts of fear.