They smiled, and said it truly was a very fearful dream;
But I vowed all that had happened like truth to me did seem.
They asked me to point out to them the grotto that I saw.
I gazed around me, and behold the grotto was no more.
Whether it was dream or not, I know not to this day;
'Tis strange the grotto in a night should all have thawed away.
And when I spoke about the cup I quaffed the cave beneath,
"That was my brandy-flask," quoth one, "I forced between your teeth."
"Else you had perished in the snow, in truth, you looked far gone.
'Twas by the greatest chance on earth we found you here at dawn.
I thought you dead, but still I plied my flask, and, as you see,
It has proved worthy of its name, immortal 'Eau-de-Vie.'"
I thanked them for their courtesy, but when I strove to rise,
No muscle of my rigid frame could I, to my surprise,
As much as put in motion. My bones seemed on the rack,
And to my châlet's fire-side had to be carried back.
'Twas long ere I recovered my wonted life and strength;
The tourists oft would visit me, and we grew friends at length.
And the day of my recovery, to mark the grand event,
I started in their company to make a great ascent.
My mountain days are over now, my friends in other climes;
But when we meet together we talk of bygone times.
But still the name of Glacier for ever doth recall
The horrors of that fearful night, within that icy hall.
And at their friendly tables I'm often asked to dine.
They order "Vin du Glacier," as well as other wine,
And ask me if it tastes as well, as o'er their wine they sing,
As that from out the cellars of H.M. the Glacier King.
Hardly had the poet concluded his lay, when the cheering and clapping of hands that ensued half-deafened all present; that is to say, with the exception of two individuals—viz., the worthy captain and our friend the comedian, who had been deaf for some time past, under the kindly influences of the punch.
To say that the health of the poet was drunk with three times three would be unnecessary. We leave that to the imagination of the reader. Not only was that conventional ceremony gone through, but the chairman, after a short complimentary speech, proposed that a crown of laurels should be made and the young poet crowned therewith there and then.
The poet modestly interposed, but the command of the president, especially on such an occasion as the present, was not to be recalled. John Hearty, of the "Headless Lady," was sent outside, snowing hard as it was, to gather some laurel from a bush which grew close to the inn, and the poet was crowned with all due honours. There were two, however, who did not witness the imposing ceremony. Who these two were we will leave our readers to guess.