A BRITISHER The beautiful Blue River came from the jagged depths of the mountains, full of light and liveliness.

It had scarcely run six miles from its source before it touched our mill-wheel; but in that space and time it had gathered strong and copious volume.

The lovely blue of the water (like the inner tint of a glacier) was partly due to its origin, perhaps, and partly to the rich, soft tone of the granite sand spread under it.

Whatever the cause may have been, the river well deserved its title.
It was so bright and pure a blue, so limpid and pellucid, that it even seemed to out-vie the tint of the sky which it reflected, and the myriad sparks of sunshine on it twinkled like a crystal rain.

Plodding through the parched and scorching dust of the mountain-foot, through the stifling vapor and the blinding, ochreous glare, the traveler suddenly came upon this cool and calm delight.