e look upward to the sky, we observe the first white
snow-flakes falling gently to the ground. They reach it, and, for the
first time, that valley is covered with a garment of virgin snow. The
valley is upwards of two miles broad. It rises from the sea, and goes
far back into the mountains, perhaps to the extent of ten or twelve
miles. The mountains that flank it are five or six thousand feet high.
We have seen such valleys in Norway, within the arctic circle. Before
that first winter has passed, many and many a fall of snow has thickened
and pressed down that first coat; and many a furious storm has caught up
the snow from the mountain-tops and swept it into the valley, adding to
and piling up the mass, and packing it firmly down.

Spring arrives. The short but warm arctic summer bursts upon that vale,
melting the surface of the snow; and the water thus produced sinks
through the mass, converting it into a sort of thick slush--half snow,
half water,--not liquid, yet not solid; just solid enough to lie there
apparently without motion; yet just liquid enough to creep by slow,
absolutely imperceptible degrees, down the valley. The snow in all the
mountain gorges is similarly affected: it creeps (it cannot be said to
flow) out and joins that in the vale. But we cannot perceive any of the
motion of which we are writing. The mass of snow seems to be as still
and motionless as the rocks on which we stand; nay, if we choose we may
walk on its hard surface almost without leaving the slightest print of
our foot. But if we throw a large stone on the surface of the snow and
mark the spot, and return again after many days, we shall find that the
stone has descended the valley a short distance. We shall also observe
that the snow has now a variety of markings on its surface; which might
lead us to fancy, had we not known better, that it had once been a
river, which, while raging down to the sea with all its curling rapids
and whirling eddies, had been arrested in all instant by the ice-king
and frozen solid,--in fact, it has all the graceful lines and forms of
fluidity, with all the steady, motionless aspect of solidity. It really
moves, this vast body of snow; but, like the hour hand of a watch, its
motion cannot be recognised, though we should observe it with prolonged,
unflagging attention. We have called it a vast body of snow, but this
is only comparatively speaking. It will be vaster yet before we have
done with i