Les sonaillire
Van lez premire
La tôte neìre
Van lez derrière:
Hau! hau! llauba!”
I gathered any quantity of material about Swiss authors and composers: Jacques Hoffmann, Johanna Spyri, Töpfer, Amiel, Olivier,—none, perhaps, stars of the first magnitude—unless the Painter Böcklin—but all interesting.
When winter came we went to see the winter sports at Saint-Moritz—the skiing where it was not uncommon for some of the French and Norwegian champions to leap almost thirty meters. Indeed, one man flew through the air forty-six meters, but could not keep his balance when he struck far down the slope. I was not tempted to try it.
Switzerland in winter is even more beautiful than in summer. The uniform blanket of dazzling snow, though its curves are filled with vivid tints of violet and blue, may be hard on the eyes. The mercury may go low but the purity of the atmosphere and its exhilaration atone for the discomfort of cold. In the house we kept warm and cozy. The children were well and happy and I stayed on and on: I could not resist the Spell.
THE END.