It was sad to leave them, and the little Gretchen
was only pacified by my assurance that, if possible, I would return at
no distant day. My friend Spruner had business at Herisau, and
spending one more evening together, our prayers mingling for the last
time, we parted.
Our way led through the valley of the Sitter, a stream fed by the
Sentis Alps, and spanned by a bridge hundreds of feet above the water.
The same smooth carpet of velvet green was spread everywhere.
"There is no greener land," said Spruner; "the grass is so rich that
the inhabitants cannot even spare enough for vegetable gardens. Our
tables are supplied from the lower vallies."
"In our country we should not dream of making hay in the month of
April," I remarked, seeing several stout men already in the field.
"With suitable care they can mow the same field every six weeks,"
responded my friend. "And it is no doubt this peculiar process that
gives such sweetness and splendor of color, seen nowhere else, not
even between the hedgerows of England."
The day proved to be neither clear nor rainy: a steel blue sky brought
out the broken peaks of Kasten, while the white shoulders of the
Sentis were veiled with a thin, gray suit.
"A month later and we should see the herdsmen," remarked Spruner. "The
leader of the herd marches in front with a large bell suspended from
his neck by a handsome leathern band; the others follow, some with
garlands of flowers and straps of embroidered leather, with milking
pails suspended between the horns.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25