As far as days by myself can be happy they are so, for I love the place with all my heart.

I have no over-fatigue or labour, and plenty of time.
By-the-by, though in most respects they are incapable of improvement, I recollect that I thought to-day, as I was breaking last night's ice away from the rocks of which I wanted a specimen, with a sharpish wind and small pepper and salt-like sleet beating in my face, that a hot chop and a glass of sherry, if they were to be had round the corner, would make the thing more perfect.

There was however nothing to be had round the corner but some Iceland moss, which belonged to the chamois, and an extra allowance of north wind." This next is scribbled on a tiny scrap of paper: "GLACIER or GREPPOND, _August_ 21.
"MY DEAREST FATHER, "I am sitting on a gray stone in the middle of the glacier, waiting till the fog goes away.

I believe I _may_ wait.

I write this line in my pocket-book to thank my mother for hers which I did not acknowledge last night.