"I guess you won't try that again. I did Munich in one day,
Dresden in one and a half, Berlin in two, and Europe in twenty." Three
women and a man stop opposite the chalet. The ladies are charmingly
dressed in summer frocks of white and pink and blue, and carry nothing
heavier than a parasol. The man is laden with cloaks, rugs, and bags.
They peer into my window and try to catch a glimpse of the interior. I
hastily draw the curtains and leave one peep-hole for myself. "Quaint
houses these Swiss live in," says one. "It isn't a bad shanty," says the
man. "Let's have a glass of milk," says another.

"Dew lait," they shout through the window. I callously observe them
through my peep-hole. The man is of a fine American type, sinewy,
resolute, hawk-eyed. The mountain sunshine provides me with Roentgen
rays, and I see Wall Street inside his brow. "Dew lait," they yell. As
there is no answer, they hammer at the door. The door is adamant. They
leave reluctantly. "I think I saw the face of one of those Swiss idiots
through the curtains," says the lady in pink; "of course he would not
understand what we said."

There is a delightful readiness to jump to conclusions on the part of
visitors. Sometimes they are the reverse of flattering, but they are
always a source of delighted interest to me. I remember one day, years
ago, when I had gone to draw water at the source, which emerges as a
thousand diamonds from the rock and then descends into the hollow trunk
of a tree and becomes tame and inclined to domesticity. The cows had
come for a drink at the same hour, and we had just exchanged a few
polite remarks when I found myself observed by an English clergyman.
Yes, unmistakably English. His face was prim and clean-shaven, his
collar straight and stiff, upon his lips there played a sweet and devout
smile. He lifted up the tail of his coat ceremoniously and, selecting a
clean stone, seated himself upon it. He radiated condescending kindness.

"Lor a bun," said he. I asked the cows to excuse me for a moment and
turned to him. "Lor a bun," he repeated, this time with a query. I
stared uncomprehendingly. The sweet smile became sweeter. "Lor a bun, ma
pettit fille, eh?" At last I understood. "Oh, yes, the water is
excellent here," I replied, "and freezingly cold if you put your
fingers in it." He departed in unceremonious haste.

For some years I have watched the procession of nations on my path.
French, German, English, Russian, Austri