the Alps, is not always ideal. What a climber wants is snow fairly hard for the upward journey, fairly soft for the downward. This we do not always get, but the very variety and uncertainty are a large part of the charm of winter mountaineering. The same climb is never the same twice running. Its standard of difficulty may alter with astonishing celerity. The time taken on one occasion may be double that on another, but times, as all mountaineers get to know, are of no value in estimating the climbing abilities of a party unless conditions are also equal.

We have seen from the foregoing what a wide field our Scottish fells present for the education of the snow climber. For six months in the year he may there find practically Alpine conditions. Indeed, if attempting some of our highest north-east gullies, the ice-axe will be found indispensable at any season of the year. If after an experience gained here, he goes to the Alps, he will find that his expeditions on his native hills will stand him in good stead. His ice-axe is a familiar and trusted friend, not an uncouth weapon, dangerous to himself and others. He will have learned, if at all observant, a good deal about snow conditions on steep slopes, only he must remember the hotter sun and slighter adhesion of snow in the Alps. Above all he should have learned, if he is capable of learning, the great lesson of balance, to stand up straight and to plant the feet firmly in the steps. He must also remember, however, that though his conquest of the snowy gully, with its 10 or 20 foot ice pitches, is probably a more difficult and risky bit of climbing than almost anything usually done in the Alps, still there everything is on a much greater scale, and endurance of long-continued exertion is much more valuable than any other climbing qualities, except balance and caution. Balance is the most valuable quality because it in reality doubles at least a climber's endurance. All three qualities spell safety on long and difficult expeditions, and safe is the highest qualifying adjective we can bestow upon the mountaineer.

The cultivation of cocoanut-like biceps by any of the modern methods of muscle growing may possibly be of some use to climbers. But man after all is not a monkey,

and if an army may be said to travel upon its stomach, the mountaineer travels, even though the angle approach 80°, mainly by means of his feet. It is to the education of the feet therefore, and incidentally of course to the education of hand and eye and brain, that mountaineers should devote their attention. There is no better field for this education, apart altogether from the æsthetic joys to be obtained, than our Scottish Bens in their wintry garb of

snow.

ONLY A BEAUTIFUL DAY ON THE HILLS.

BY A. ERNEST MAYLARD.

SOME few years ago I should have had little hesitation in venturing upon the simple narrative of a ramble on the hills. But now! Dare I intrude with no more thrilling description of a day's outing than the mere existence on the tops of the mountains will afford, when earth and heaven seemed at peace with each other, and all Nature smiled beneath the benignant influences of a heaven-born joy? No daring prehensile feats to excite the climber's admiration; no difficulties that occupied hours of anxious thought and action. The bold and intrepid cragsman may therefore pause and spare his time; for such a day as that with which this simple narrative deals, appeals only to the soul of man, and awakens sensations that tend rather to subdue than stimulate the physical side of his nature.

The sun was shining from out an almost cloudless sky; the mighty billows that so often dashed with relentless vigour upon the rock-bound coast were hushed to sleep; and the sea seemed to smile with joy as the sun's rays danced gaily on its rippled surface. The outlying isles, too, sought to lend their charm to the distant vista; for faintly outlined in the seascape, and enshrouded in a purplish haze, they added to the sense of peace and repose in which all Nature seemed to revel on that ever-memorable April morn. It was under these soothing, yet exhilarating conditions that two mountaineers-if indeed they could be considered such on the present occasion-sauntered forth from the keeper's lodge at Glen Brittle, just two days after the official meet of the Club at Sligachan had been brought to a conclusion.

On Tuesday, the day preceding that about which I write, Solly and I left Sligachan for Glen Brittle. The rocks were too deeply coated with snow to tempt us to traverse Sgurr a Ghreadaidh, our original intention; we therefore simply passed over the bealach between Sgurr Thuilm and Sgurr a Mhadaidh, and leisurely skirted the western spurs

of An Diallaid and Sgurr nan Gobhar till we reached our destination. It was a beautiful evening, and there seemed every prospect of a good day in store for us. We sleptor perhaps I should more truthfully say tried to sleep-at the keeper's lodge. The good housewife did her best for us, and it was no fault of hers that Solly's bed was a foot too short for him, and my mattress somewhat like the tops of the Coolins. But the discomforts of the night were soon forgotten, when a glance out of the window revealed the sun shining brilliantly, and hardly a breath of wind to disturb the young leaves of the spring-clad trees.

By 9.20 we were on the tramp, with no further objective than to enjoy ourselves, and with just that charming sense of inertia that is felt when nothing special has to be accomplished. What we might ascend or might not hardly seemed to concern us, at least at this initial stage of our expedition. However, we made for a "shoulder," which it did not take long to discern would lead us to the summit of Sgurr Sgumain. No objective did I say? How delightful! just to linger and look on the beauties of Nature as every few hundred feet of ascent revealed some new scene, another peak peering above a ridge casting its jagged outline against the sky. At last the summit was reached. Was it record time? It took three and a half hours, and surely none could take longer. What a panorama unfolded itself before our eyes! Could it really be the Coolins we were on, and the Coolins we were looking at? No mists, no rain, no boisterous south-westerly blasts from the ocean, and no cutting and biting winds from the north, just a clump of white cumulus here and there sluggishly moving in a heaven of blue. As the eye swept the horizon every peak from Sgurr nan Gillean to Gars-bheinn was as easily distinguishable—perhaps more so (with apologies to the Editor!)-as on the excellent map we consulted for our enlightenment. Our sojourn, however, was not long, for our ambitions became fired and we now wanted to go higher and see more if we could. Sgurr Alasdair lay not far from us, looking as tempting as he well could on such a day. Down, therefore, we descended to the bealach, which connects Sgumain with Alasdair, and then commenced the