"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."

Before nightfall, occasional streaks of sunshine shot across the
mountain. It did not last, however, and when we reached our
stopping-place, it was raining below and snowing above us.

The next morning our road dropped into a ravine, bringing something to
admire at every turn. Leaving our course, we visited the Cascade of
Horsfall, the beauty of which amply repaid us for the delay it cost.
That night we slept at Herisau, the largest town in the Canton, and
here I was to part with Spruner. There was no difficulty in reaching
the lower valley. With many shakes of the hand, and "May God's
blessing be upon you,'" we parted: one to take the railroad to Zurich,