l, added to the reality of the
impression.

I arose quickly and ran to open the window wide.

Then presented itself to my astonished eyes such a wondrous spectacle as
no mortal tongue, no pen of man, can describe--the wide prospect that the
eagle, the denizen of the high Alps, sweeps with his far reaching ken
every morning at the rising of the deep purple veil that overhung the
horizon by night mountains farther off! mountains far away! and yet again
in the blue distance--mountains still, blending with the grey mists of
the morning in the shadowy horizon!--motionless billows that sink into
peace and stillness in the blue distance of the plains of Lorraine. Such
is a faint idea of the mighty scenery of the Vosges, boundless forests,
silver lakes, dazzling crests, ridges, and peaks projecting their clear
outlines upon the steel-blue of the valleys clothed in snow. Beyond this,
infinite space!

Could any enthusiasm of poet or skill of painter attain the sublime
elevation of such a scene as that?

I stood mute with admiration. At every moment the details stood out
more clearly in the advancing light of morning; hamlets, farm-houses,
villages, seemed to rise and peep out of every undulation of the land. A
little more attention brought more and more numerous objects into view.

I had leaned out of my window rapt in contemplation for more than a
quarter of an hour when a hand was laid lightly upon my shoulder; I
turned round startled, when the calm figure and quiet smile of Gideon
saluted me with--

"Guten Tag, Fritz! Good morning!"

Then he also rested his arms on the window, smoking his short pipe. He
extended his hand and said--

"Look, Fritz, and admire! You are a son of the Black Forest, and you must
admire all that. Look there below; there is Roche Creuse. Do you see it?
Don't you remember Gertrude? How far off those times seem now!"

Sperver brushed away a tear. What could I say?

We sat long contemplating and meditating over this grand spectacle. From
time to time the old poacher, noticing me with my eyes fixed upon some
distant object, would explain--

"That is the Wald Horn; this is the Tiefenthal; there's the fall of the
Steinbach; it has stopped running now; it is hanging down in great
fringed sheets, like the curtains over the shoulder of the Harberg--a
cold winter's cloak! Down there is a path that leads to Fribourg; in a
fortnight's time it will be difficult to trace it."

Thus our time passed awa