The mighty battlements round the lake, with their piebald ridges, and black spots, look like the grim walls of some old Afghan hill fort, riddled with bullets, and torn and rent by fierce onslaughts of the foe.
Close to Pigeon Island there is a very pretty pass between the island end and the main land. The cabbage-trees, green sward, and verdant bush (for there are no rabbits on this island, and grass and sheep are consequently abundant) are charming by contrast with the bare desolation of the snowy ridges. The passage close to the three islands is the prettiest peep on the whole lake. It is pretty. The rest is grand.
The keen mountain air had whetted my appetite, and we were glad to hear the summons of the bell to lunch. We found the cuisine most excellent on board the Mountaineer, and some lake trout, smoked á la Findon haddock, a second time tempted me to make rather a display of my gastronomic powers. Old Thomas Thompson, the Scotch engineer, I noticed eyeing me rather dubiously, and I fancied he was putting some constraint on his appetite. I afterwards found he had some reason to doubt the too facile pen of the peripatetic scribe, inasmuch as his appetite for porridge had already been made the butt of "The Vagabond's"[1] sacrilegious sarcasm. It seems that on the occasion of "The Vagabond's" visit, poor Thompson had made the porridge disappear with
- ↑ "The Vagabond," Mr. Julian Thomas, a well-known writer and special commissioner for the Melbourne Argus.
