“No, no, Russli, they don’t think it fun,” said Vinzi. “They jump from fright, because such thin whips hurt them very much. I won’t make you any sticks for that. But show me the bush, and if the wood is good I’ll cut you something else.”
Of course Russli was terribly curious to know what Vinzi meant to make him. But Vinzi declared he would not tell till he had seen the bush and asked Jos a question. Expectantly Russli ran ahead. Soon they turned off from the road to a grove, where they found a large bush whose branches stood up perfectly straight.
“Here,” said Russli, pulling Vinzi along.
Vinzi, gazing with satisfaction at the firm branches, began to cut those which pleased him most.
“Come now,” he said after having gathered a considerable bunch, “we must go to your brothers. Do you know where they are? I can’t see them any more. I’ll cut it for you when I get there.”
Russli hastened on followed by Vinzi.
“Oh, how lovely it is here,” Vinzi exclaimed and stood still. “But where is the pasture?”
“Here,” said Russli.
Vinzi looked about him. Here and there isolated high, dark larches let in the deep-blue sky through their delicate branches. On the lovely green slope little patches of fiery red alpine-roses glowed between moss-covered stones. The full mountain stream was rushing down hill throwing up snow-white foam whenever rocks tried to bar its course. Vinzi could see the cows quietly grazing a short distance away. He stood without moving. Never in his life had he seen such a pasture. The slanting sun fell through the trees on the glowing flowers and sparkled on the waving grass. The soft mountain air, gently fanning the trees, played with the shadows and soughed through their branches with a delicate song.
The soughing seemed first to grow, then to die away in the far distance. Vinzi had not moved from the spot, gazing and listening intently.