the mill-timbers, shaking the frail sheds and even the very
cottages with their giant strokes! There is a character of enterprise in
the selection of such a wild spot irresistibly captivating. One cannot
look upon those hardy peasants without a sense of respect and admiration
for those who have braved climate and danger--and such there is--to
seek a livelihood and a home, rather than toil in indigence and
dependence in the valley beneath.

The Kletscher is not picturesque for situation only. Its houses, built
of the pine-wood, are covered over with a kind of varnish, which,
while it preserves the colour, protects the timber from the effects of
weather. Each story is flanked externally by a little gallery, whose
ornamental balustrades display their native skill in carpentry, and are
often distinguished by grotesque carvings, executed with an ability that
none but a Tyroler could pretend to. The door and window-frames, too,
are finished in the same taste; while, instead of other designation,
each cottage is known by some animal of the owner's selection, which
stands proudly above the door-porch: and thus some old white-headed
Bauer of eighty winters is called the Chamois; a tart-looking,
bitter-faced Frau, his neighbour, being known as the Lamb; a merry
little cheerful-eyed peasant being a Buffalo; and the schoolmaster--I
blush to write it--diffusing "Useful Knowledge" under the sign of a
braying Donkey.

Animated and cheerful as the scene is by day, alive with all the
instincts and sounds of happy labour, I like bettor to look upon it
by night, when all is calm and still, and nothing but the plash of the
waterfall stirs the air--to see these quaint old houses, with their
sculptured pinnacles and deep-shadowing eaves sleeping in the mellow
moonlight--mill and miller sunk in slumber--not a footstep nor a voice
to be heard, save one, the village watchman, going his nightly round,
chanting his little verse of assuring comfort to the waking ear, and
making the sleeper's dream a peaceful one.

See how he moves along, followed by his little dog, sleepy-looking and
drowsy as its master! He stands in front of that cottage--it belongs to
the Vorsteher, or ruler of the Dorf. Power has its privileges even here,
and the great man should know how the weather fares, and what the hour
is, if, perchance, the cares of state have kept him waking, as Homer
tells us that they can. Now he has ended his little song, and he wends
his way ove