Towards democracy

)

>

f

{

?

Tanzbodeli 443

Save for the fitful rattle of falling rocks, or muffled roar of an avalanche. ]

But at the end of the train, and closing it and the valley, Rises a huge bare cliff, the frowning G’spaltenhorn, Diabolic and dark, an inferno of crags and pinnacles.

This on one side; on the other the landscape opens

To lower valleys and pastures—the huts of Gimmelwald and Murren,

Lying serene in the sunlight, with herds of cows just visible,

And the blue-vista’d gorge of Lauterbrunnen running down to the distant hills of the twin lakes,

And tiny villages and towns, half seen and half imagined,

All folded in light and glory—as the peaks above are folded.

And there below us, in the huts of the upper pastures, the herdsmen gather and milk the cows, and in their great cauldrons warm the milk, and strain and press the cheeses ;

Staying a few weeks in one spot till the feed is exhausted, and then leading the tinkling-belled herd by precipitous paths to other huts and pastures,

All summer long, till the autumnal return to the lowlands ;

And in the little chalets the daily life goes on, with knitting and spinning and beating of flax, and storage of winter fuel and fodder;

And men with small short scythes mow the slopes of