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Fine fresh mornin’; a real Spring day; Alps a smother of snow, Sea like a jolly good laugh spread out mile upon mile below, Kowhai all yellow wi’ blossom.... Nor’-east? Nor’-west it’ll be, from here.... Ay!—Sharp and sudden, and bitter as ever, yonder the Hill stands clear.

..Nothin’ to see! Nor there couldn’t be anythin’ now—only tongueless dust, Snug, an’ deep down under the tussock.—Keep guard all the same I must! Never had nerve to revisit the place; nor I’ll never get nerve to quit Here, where I can have it before me, an’ see, an’ make sure of it.

Snow’s the safest; in storms I’m easy; days o’ the runnin’ fire, I bother a bit—but it licks the crag, an’ never creeps up no higher.