[to be continued.]
GLACIERS.[1]
A glacier is a field or immense mass of ice formed in the deep valleys of high mountain ranges upon which snow seems to be eternal. The snow, however, is not so lasting. Indeed, it is constantly evaporating, returning to the clouds from which it descended; or, remaining exposed to the rays of the sun, or to the influence of a hot southerly wind, it melts and trickles down until it is seized by the cold and congealed into ice. Thus, by means of the millions of drops which melt only to freeze and melt again, and again grow solid, the mass is constantly transformed, and, little by little, the snow so lately fallen upon the summit of the mountain is found to have descended the slopes. Even in the summer these enormous quantities of ice and snow produce a local winter, all the more curious from the contrast, for side by side with the gloomy glacier, with its great gaping crevices, its collection of stones, its terrible silence, flowers are blooming, birds are singing, and fruit ripens. It is like death and life.
The glacier, however, has a life of its own. Though difficult to discover its secret progress, it is in constant motion. Like the avalanche, its work is to carry the rubbish of the crumbling mountains into the plains, not by violence, but by the patient labor of every moment. It is true that glaciers have ages, almost endless, in which to do their work, but slowly as they move, their destination is the sea, where they must one day be swallowed up. Always immovable in appearance, they are really ice rivers flowing in a rocky bed. On its course the solid river behaves very much as would one of running water. It has its windings, its depths and shallows, its rapids and cascades.
A GLACIER AND CREVASSE.
But the ice, not possessing the suppleness or fluidity of water, accomplishes, somewhat awkwardly, the movements forced upon it by the nature of the ground. It can not at its cataracts fall in one level sheet as does the water current; but, according to the inequalities of the bottom, and the cohesion of the ice crystals, it fractures, splits, gets cut up into blocks inclining various ways, falling over one another, becoming cemented together again in curious obelisks, towers, fantastic groups. Even in that part where the bottom of the immense groove inclines with tolerable regularity, the surface of the glacier does not in the least resemble the even surface of the water of a river. The friction of the ice against its edges does not ripple it with tiny waves similar to those of the shore, but fractures and refractures it with crevices intersecting one another in a multitude of fissures or cracks, which, widening out into chasms, become what are known as crevasses, and which make travel upon a glacier so dangerous.
Looking down from the edges of these chasms we see layer upon layer of bluish ice separated by blackish bands, the remains of rubbish carried down from the surface, or at other times the ice may be as clear and perfect as one single crystal. What is the depth? We do not know. A jutting crag of ice, combined with the darkness, prevents our glance descending to the lowest rocks; yet we sometimes hear a mysterious noise ascending from the abyss: it is the water rippling, a stone becoming loosened, a bit of ice splitting off and falling down. Explorers have descended these chasms to measure their density and to study the temperature and composition of the deep ice. Sometimes they have been able to do it, without any great risk, by penetrating laterally into the clefts from the rocks which serve as banks to the rivers of ice. Frequently, too, they are let down by ropes. But for one scientific discoverer who carefully and with proper precaution thus explores the holes of the glaciers, how many unhappy shepherds have been ingulfed by these chasms! Yet it is known that mountaineers having fallen to the bottom of a crevasse, though wounded and bleeding and dazed by the darkness, have yet preserved their courage and managed to save their lives. There was one who followed the course of a subglacial stream, and thus made a veritable journey below the enormous vault of ice.
Without descending into the depths of a glacier to study its air-bubbles and crystals, praiseworthy as the courageous effort may be, we can find much to interest us upon its surface.
In this apparent confusion everything is regulated by law. Why should a fissure always be produced in the frozen mass opposite one point of the steep bank? Why at a certain depth below should the crevasse, which has gradually become enlarged, again bring its edges nearer each other, and the glacier be re-cemented? Why should the surface regularly bulge out in one part to become fissured elsewhere? On seeing all these phenomena, which roughly reproduce the ripples, wavelets, and eddies on the smooth sheets of the water of a river, we better understand the unity which presides over everything in nature.
When, by long exploration, we have become familiar with the glacier, and we know how to account to ourselves for all the little changes which take place upon it, it is a delight to roam about it on a fine summer's day. The heat of the sun has given it voice and motion. Tiny veins of water, almost imperceptible at first, are formed here and there; these unite in sparkling streamlets which wind at the bottom of miniature river-beds, hollowed out by themselves, and then suddenly disappear in a crack in the ice, giving forth a low plaint in a silvery voice. They swell or fall according to the variations of the temperature. Should a cloud pass before the sun and cool the atmosphere, they barely continue to flow; when the heat becomes greater, the rivulets assume the pace of torrents; they sweep away with them sand and pebbles, which, meeting little drifts of earth, form banks and islands; then toward evening they calm down, and soon the cold of the night congeals them afresh.
How much more charming are all these little dramas of inanimate nature when animals or plants take part in them! Attracted by the mildness of the air the butterfly flutters on the scene, or the plant, fallen from the heights of neighboring rocks, makes the most of its short time to take root again and display its last little blossoms.
[APRIL.]
BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.
Frost in the meadow, fog on the hill;
Bluebird and robin sing with a will.
Up through the brown earth, spite of the cold,
Comes Lady Crocus, in purple and gold.
Shy little Snow-drop, dressed like a bride,
Nodding and trembling, stands by her side.
Daffadowndilly slips out of bed,
With a buff turban crowning her head.
Slim Mr. Jonquil comes on the run;
"Pray, am I up in time for the fun?"
[EASTER-TIME.]
BY MARY D. BRINE.
The shadows of winter, so chill and so gray,
Have passed from the meadows and hill-tops away;
There's a shine in the skies,
Born of Spring's merry eyes,
And the heart of the Earth grows softer each day.
See how she releases from fetter and chain
Her treasures, which spring into freedom again,
Till with beauty and bloom
And sweetest perfume
Is filled every hill-side, and meadow, and lane.
But fairest of all things that blossom and grow,
Sweet as the summer and pure as the snow,
Is the lily, that tells,
Like the glad Easter bells,
Once more the sweet story which all hearts should know.
Bloom out, Easter lilies; bloom brightly and fair;
Breathe out your pure fragrance upon the mild air;
Fling your banners so white
Gayly out to the light,
For past is the lenten of sorrow and care.
For oh! with the spring-time the Easter is born;
Out of darkness and night springs the glad welcome dawn;
And Easter bells ringing,
Their Easter song singing,
With loud jubilates hail Spring's sunny morn.
WORKING PLANS OF A CATAMARAN.