William and I rolled down some
avalanches, by way of getting an appetite, while dinner was preparing.
[Illustration: _of the rearing head and neck of a bridled mule._]
After dinner we commenced descending towards Martigny,
alternately riding and walking. Here, while I was on foot, my mule
took it into his head to run away. I was never more surprised in my
life than to see that staid, solemn, meditative, melancholy beast
suddenly perk up both his long ears, thus, and hop about over the
steep paths like a goat. Not more surprised should I be to see some
venerable D. D. of Princeton leading off a dance in the Jardin
Mabille. We chased him here, and chased him there. We headed him, and
he headed us. We said, "Now I have you," and he said, "No, you don't!"
until the affair began to grow comically serious. "_Il se moque de
vous!_" said the guide. But, at that moment, I sprang and caught
him by the bridle, when, presto! down went his ears, shut went the
eyes, and over the entire gay brute spread a visible veil of
stolidity. And down he plodded, _slunging_, shambling, pivotting
round zigzag corners, as before, in a style which any one that ever
navigated such a craft down hill knows without further telling. After
that, I was sure that the old fellow kept up a "terrible thinking," in
spite of his stupid looks, and knew a vast deal more than he chose to
tell.
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