At Terminus, three-quarters way up, in a bleak and exposed crag, plastered with advertisements. Day not quite so glorious. Fog coming on. Or is it "Scotch mist?" But what has a Scotch mist to do in Wales? Ask engine-driver's opinion. He has none. "Then which is the way up?" Doesn't know. "His way is down." Must speak to Sir E.W. about engine-driver.
Ascent continued. Leads down-hill. Curious. Sound of dashing waterfall close by. Must see it. Turn round a corner. No waterfall at all, only the Electric-Light-generating station! Noise I heard was the "machinery in motion." Query—does an iron shed with chimney pouring out factory smoke, add to charms of wild scenery?
More surprises! Find an "Automatic Delivery" pillar! Curious sight on a mountain. Put a penny in, and you get a small book—Guide to Snowdonia. Thanks! But what I want is a guide to top. Fog worse than ever. Believe I've missed my way.
Five hours later.—I had. Shoes utterly worn out. Awfully, tired. Hit on top by mere accident. Resting in new hotel. Scrumptious, but dear. Don't care! Electric Light. What system? Waiter says "Brush." Must be 'air-brush up here, I fancy! Anyhow no good in a fog. Shall suggest foghorn to Sir E. WATKIN for thick weather. Also guides waiting at Crag Terminus. Bottle of beer. Divine! View? None, and don't want any. More beer. Electric Light better than I thought. Electricity is life. Electricity is also beer. More beer, please! Waiter asks "if I sleep at top?" Beds only two guineas a night. Of course I do! "Then shall he wake me for sunrise?" He'd better not. Goo' night! Sowdn—mean Snowdn—great sksess.
HER VIOLETS!
She gave them to me when the dance was done,
Her eyes all lighted with the ecstasy
Of triumph in the crushing contest won,