These are the best bedchambers the high mountains afford--snug as squirrel-nests, well ventilated, full of spicy odors, and with plenty of wind-played needles to sing one asleep.

I little expected company, but, creeping in through a low side-door, I found five or six birds nestling among the tassels.

The night-wind began to blow soon after dark; at first only a gentle breathing, but increasing toward midnight to a rough gale that fell upon my leafy roof in ragged surges like a cascade, bearing wild sounds from the crags overhead.

The waterfall sang in chorus, filling the old ice-fountain with its solemn roar, and seeming to increase in power as the night advanced--fit voice for such a landscape.

I had to creep out many times to the fire during the night, for it was biting cold and I had no blankets.