Whither shall we turn? The valleys call us on every side. Newlands
wide vale we can reach, or cheerful Borrowdale, or lonely Ennerdale,
or--yes, to-night we will sup at Wastdale, at the jolly old inn that Auld
Will Ritson used to keep, that inn sacred to the cragsman, where on New
Year's Eve the gay company of climbers foregather from their brave deeds on
the mountains and talk of hand-holds and foot-holds and sing the song of
"The rope, the rope," and join in the chorus as the landlord trolls out:
I'm not a climber, not a climber,
Not a climber now,
My weight is going fourteen stone--
I'm not a climber now.
We shall not find Gaspard there to-night--Gaspard, the gay and intrepid
guide from the Dauphine, beloved of all who know the lonely inn at
Wastdale. He is away on the battle-field fighting a sterner foe than the
rocks and precipices of Great Gable and Scawfell. But Old Joe, the
shepherd, will be there--Old Joe, who has never been in a train or seen a
town and whose special glory is that he can pull uglier faces than any man
in Cumberland.
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