ill set
in every mountain chalet. The origin of the Gruyere customs, like the
coraules and the still observed habit of hanging wreaths on their door
posts or in the oak groves, have a derivation of the most distant
antiquity, in the Chaldean cradle of the race, in the myths of India and
the Orient. The personified forces of Nature, the cloud wraiths of the
mountains, the lisping voices of the streams, for many centuries
haunting the imaginations of the people, still live in their legends, as
they do in Celtic Ireland. The idyllic loveliness of the country is
deliciously completed by the vines which are trained over the houses, by
the flowers which grow in their windows, so that from spring to
November Gruyere is a garden, ringed by blue mountains under a sky of
pure blue. In the Romand country are many exquisite towns such as Romont
and Rue, Estavayer, Oron and Morat--happily preserved in their unaltered
mediaeval perfection. But the heart of this country is Gruyere,
impregnated with the romance of the departed days of chivalry, its
people affectionately faithful to the memory of their noble and beloved
rulers.

As for the Celtic wit, ever present in their sayings and legends, it is
characteristically shown in the following little story of the "Fountain
of Lessoc."

THE FOUNTAIN OF LESSOC

It happened one day that good father Colin went to the fair at chateau
d'Oex, where he successfully transacted his business, particularly at
the tavern. On his return journey he stopped at the inn at Montbovon,
not so much for the pleasure of drinking as to chat with his old
cronies, with the result that it was midnight before he was on his way
to Lessoc. A cold welcome awaited him at home. "Thou art a selfish and a
drunken wight, and the donkey is dying of thirst," said Fanchon with
many reproaches for his evil conduct. Greatly ashamed was Colin, and to
quickly repair his error untied la Cocotte and led her to the fountain.
The night was superb, and in the water was reflected the shining disk
of the moon. Precisely in this silver spot, the poor Cocotte began to
ease her thirst when, "Behold," said her master, "she is drinking the
moon." Then suddenly the moon went under a cloud, and at the same moment
Cocotte, quite satisfied, lifted her head, "Heavens!" cried Colin, "the
moon has gone and my donkey has drunk her."

Not a word did he say to his wife, but all night watched over Cocotte in
the stable. In the morning, up and down