"Now, Phronsie, sit down on that rock, and let the guide tie on your
stockings." So Phronsie's little blue stockings were tied on, and after
Grandpapa had gallantly seen that everybody else was served, he had his
pulled on over his boots and fastened securely, and the line of march
was taken up.
"You go ahead, father," begged Jasper, "and we'll all follow."
So old Mr. King, with Phronsie and a guide on her farther side, led the
way, and the red stockings and the brown and the black, and some of
indescribable hue, moved off upon the _Mer de Glace_.
"It's dreadfully dirty," said Adela, turning up her nose. "I thought a
glacier was white when you got up to it."
"Oh, I think it is lovely!" cried Polly; "and that green down in the
crevasse--look, Adela!"
"It's a dirty green," persisted Adela, whose artistic sense wouldn't be
satisfied. "O dear me!" as her foot slipped and she clutched Mrs.
Henderson, who happened to be next.
"Now, how about the woollen stockings?" asked Tom, while Polly and
Jasper both sang out, "Take care," and "Go slowly."
Adela didn't answer, but stuck the sharp end of her alpenstock smartly
into the ice.
"Something is the matter with my stocking," at last said the parson's
wife, stopping and holding out her right foot.
The guide nearest her stopped, too, and kneeling down on the ice, he
pulled it into place, for it had slipped half off.
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