_chalet_ is perched upon
some natural terrace, in the midst of an orchard or scanty garden. As we
touched at these lake villages, brown-faced girls, in scant blue
petticoats and black bodices, and with faded hair braided in their
necks, offered us fruits--apricots and cherries--in pretty, rustic
baskets.

One of these green spots, high among the rocks, forms a sloping meadow,
touching the water at last. It is an oasis in the surrounding desert of
barren rock. Do you know why the grass is greener here than elsewhere?
why the sun bestows its kisses more warmly? why the foliage upon the
scattered walnut and chestnut trees is thicker, darker, than upon those
on other mountain-sides? It is because this is Gruetlii--the birthplace
of Swiss liberty. Here, more than five hundred years ago, the three
confederates met at night to plan the throwing off of the Austrian yoke.

Not far from Gruetlii, resting apparently upon the water, at the base of
one of these cliffs, is what appears at first sight to be a pretty green
and white summer-house, open towards the lake. It is Tell's Chapel,
built upon a shelf of rock, and only approachable from the water.
Here--so the story runs--William Tell sprang ashore, and escaped the
tyrant Gessler. We sweep around this promontory and gain the last bay
where lies Fluellen--a ragged village, swarming with tourists,
vetturinos, and diligences. Among the carriages we find our own. It is a
roomy landau, luxuriously lined with scarlet velvet, drawn by three
horses which wear tinkling bells, and is capable of carrying six
passengers. The top is thrown back, but a kind of calash-shade screens
from the sun the occupants of what we should call the driver's seat. Our
driver's place is a narrow board behind the horses. One crack of a long
whip, and we are off at a rattling pace over the hard road, smooth as a
floor.

For the first day we are to follow the pass of St. Gothard--that
well-travelled highway which leads through mountain defiles into Italy.
We dashed by Altorf, where the family of Queen Victoria's husband
originated, passing the open square in which William Tell shot the apple
from the head of his son. An old man is watering a horse at the basin of
the stone fountain which marks the spot where the father stood. All this
valley is sacred to the memory of William Tell. In a village near by he
was born; in the mountain stream, just beyond, he is said to have lost
his life in the attempt to save a