CHAPTER V
When Jean-Claude Hullin went the next morning in his shirt-sleeves to open his shutters, he saw all the neighbouring mountains—the Jägerthal, the Grosmann, the Donon—covered with snow. There is always something striking in this first aspect of winter, come upon the earth in our sleep; the old firs, the moss-covered rocks, still decked in verdure the evening before, and now sparkling with hoar-frost, fill the soul with an indefinable feeling of sadness. "Another year gone," we say to ourselves; "another rough winter to go through, before the return of the flowers!" And people hasten to provide their winter clothing, and lay in their store of fuel. While your humble dwelling is pleasant inside with warmth and light, you hear out of doors, for the first time, the sparrows—the poor sparrows—chirruping mournfully, as they nestle, with ruffled plumage, under the thatch, "No breakfast this morning—no breakfast!"
Hullin put on his strong iron-bound and doubled soled shoes, and his thick overcoat.
He heard Louise walking about in her little room overhead.
"Louise!" he called out; "I am off!"
"What! are you going out again to-day?"
"Yes, my child, I must: I have not finished my business."
Then, having put on his large, slouched hat, he went halfway up the stairs, and said, in a low tone: